


Give a Little Bit (of Your Time to Me)

by Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Loose interpretation of the medical profession, M/M, Post-Graduation, Providence Falconers, Referee!Holster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-17 14:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12368064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells
Summary: “Two minutes for the most blatant fucking tripping I’ve seen since Woodstock!” the ref bellowed at Jesse, one of their wingers. Then, five minutes later: “Two minutes for hooking. Are you trying to catch this guy like a fish?”Justin turned to Shitty. “Where the hell did this guy come from? Someone’s garage?”In a world where Adam Birkholtz never went to Samwell, he loses a beer pong bet to Lardo and winds up refereeing a rec hockey game for one freshly broken-hearted Justin Oluransi. For once in his life, Justin is totally out of his league.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a WIP. It is complete, but I am fine-tuning some of the later sections. There is no set update schedule, but the whole thing should be entirely posted within the next few weeks.
> 
> Title is, unsurprisingly, based on the song "Give a Little Bit." I recommend listening to the cover by Adam Birkholtz's fellow Buffalo natives, The Goo Goo Dolls, or you could also just listen to any song by 2000s and 2010s pop divas. Either way, Holster approves.

“Dude, you just need to come once. Just once.”

“For the last time, Shits, the answer is no.”

“But Dex is sick and Nursey’s away and Wicks is organizing some stupid charity event—“

“Did you just call a fundraiser for homeless kids stupid?”

“No! Well, yes, maybe, but it doesn’t change the fact that we need you if we don’t want to forfeit that game tomorrow.”

Justin glared at Shitty across the booth and dumped a large gulp of beer into his throat. For the last week, Shitty had been haranguing him about playing in his current (and Justin’s former) beer league game, and each day, Justin had responded with a resounding no. He’d said no over text, over email, over voicemail, and now, currently, he was saying it in person. But even that couldn’t deter Shitty.

“I don’t see why you’re so opposed,” said Shitty, gesturing wildly in the air. “You like hockey, and you’re a damn good player even when you’re out of practice. Hell, you’ll definitely be top two pairing tomorrow if you choose to play.”

“I have other plans,” said Justin.

“No, you don’t,” countered Shitty.

“I have a date.”

“With whom?”

“You don’t know her.”

“What’s her name?”

Justin hesitated a second too long, and Shitty slammed his glass on the table triumphantly. “I knew it! You fucking liar. You fucking fuckface liar. Now you have to play to make up for lying to your friends like that.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” He drained the last of his beer. “I especially don’t have to play hockey for your beer league team just because everyone else also decided they had better things to do.”

Shitty glared at him balefully across the table. Around them, a group of college kids cheered as one of their brethren returned with a pitcher of some fluorescent pink liquid—some sort of margarita he presumed—and began distributing it equally amongst themselves. Sometimes this bar made Justin feel old. But it still had his favorite drink, and he and Shitty were still on first name basis with the owner from their time in graduate school, and he gave them discounts, so it almost compensated for the grimy surfaces and piss-poor lighting which made it hard to see anything more than five feet away. 

“What if we made a bet?” asked Shitty.

He rolled his eyes. “For the last time, you’re not going to convince me.”

“We play pool. You beat me, and I shut up about this for the rest of the night. I win and you play.”

Justin considered his offer. Shitty, despite years living in what was essentially a frat house and even more years schmoozing with Harvard Law School’s finest, was remarkably atrocious at pool. He was unlikely to lose, but even still the bet seemed a little lopsided.

“If I win,” he offered, “you shut up about this and you’re paying for everything tonight.”

“Done,” said Shitty. He held out a hand. “Let’s duke it out. May the best bro win.”

Twenty minutes later, and Justin was staring in disbelief at the pocket where the eight ball had just fallen into, guided unwittingly by his own poor shot. Shitty was grinning gleefully behind him.

“See you tomorrow, I guess,” he said.

Justin huffed in response. “One time, Shitty. Just one time.”

 

He was borrowing some of Ollie’s spare pads because his own were buried somewhere in a closet in his apartment, and despite his best efforts and the not especially large area his apartment encompassed, he’d been unable to locate everything he needed. He grimaced as he slid on the putrid shoulder pads and resolved to shower for at least an hour after the game. While he never enjoyed the stench of his own equipment, the smell of someone else’s sweat in his equipment was somehow far worse.

He was one of the first on the ice, and he took a few laps, assessing the ice and allowing his legs to fall back into the familiar rhythm of skating. The blades on his skates, freshly sharpened that afternoon, slid easily across the surface of the rink and scraped deliciously as he slid to a stop. As annoying as Shitty had been the night before, he hadn’t been entirely wrong. Justin did miss hockey, sometimes more than he cared to admit.

“Hey,” said a voice from behind, and Justin pivoted sharply to face the man. 

And there stood the reason he had refused so vehemently in the first place. Xavier Arroyas, Shitty’s law school friend and also the most beautiful man he’d ever laid eyes upon. In theory, of course, being so close to such an attractive person was a good thing. But it was hard to enjoy that person’s presence when said person was also his ex. Not his ex-boyfriend, but his ex…something. Friends with benefits had been the term he’d used at the times, but they’d never truly been friends.

“Hi,” said Justin carefully. 

“Shitty mentioned he persuaded you to come.” Xavier nodded towards the bench. “That’s good. We could really use you out here today.”

“Well, you have me,” he said, then winced. “Just for today,” he clarified. “Nothing long term.”

Xavier nodded. “Of course. You’re a busy guy, I get it.” He placed his hand on Justin’s shoulder. “Just, you know, we’re always happy to have you back.”

With that, he skated away, leaving Justin behind. Overall, it had been nothing but a superficially pleasant interaction, entirely devoid of malice or hard feelings. Xavier was the epitome of class, of the perfect specimen of a man.

Just one of the many reasons he’d begun to fall for him.

“You and Xavier getting a chance to catch up?” said Shitty, sidling up to him. “You two seemed to hit it off well there for a while at first.”

Oh, that lovely nugget of information. Nobody else knew about their relationship. Xavier, whatever else he was, still wasn’t out, wasn’t fully comfortable with his sexuality. And Justin wasn’t going to out someone just because he’d had his heart broken.

“Yeah,” he said. “A little bit.”

Shitty grinned. “Good man. Now what do you say we sharpen up that passing of yours? Make sure you haven’t forgotten how to stickhandle your way around a crash test dummy.”

Justin promptly stole the puck off of Shitty’s stick and skated away, laughing.

 

Within ten minutes, both teams were fully on the ice, lining up to shoot pucks at the goalie. Shitty was jabbering away at James, and off to either side the Corey brothers were squabbling with each other as per usual. That much hadn’t changed since Justin last joined Shitty’s team. Despite Xavier’s presence and the lingering fluttering in his heart whenever they made eye contact, he decided he might actually manage to enjoy himself a little. Not that he would tell Shitty.

“Alright, heathens, listen up!” boomed a voice from the center of the ice. The volume of the voice was such that everyone on the ice halted and turned to look over in alarm. The owner of the voice was a tall man—even taller than Justin—and wore the zebra stripes of a referee. He had large blue eyes and a wide mouth, which, apparently, he used to great effect. 

“While I am here,” continued the ref, “this is my ice. You may be playing in this game, but I own each and every one of your sorry asses from puck drop until the moment you drag your sweaty bodies into the showers. My word is infallible, and you will obey it absolutely.”

Several members of the team seemed slightly alarmed at his intensity. But then Lardo shouted from the stands, “This isn’t martial law, asshole!”

The ref’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t tell me what to do here, Larissa!”

“Don’t act like you’re not afraid of me.”

“I might be a little scared if I thought you could skate more than five feet without falling flat on your face.”

“Enough,” cried Shitty. “Both of you!”

The ref cleared his throat loudly. “Yes,” he said. “Enough.” He directed his gaze to both sides. “Puck will drop in five minutes. If you’re not ready, it’ll be your loss.”

Justin turned to Shitty. “Where the hell did this guy come from? Someone’s garage?”

Shitty looked at him oddly. “Actually, we’re pretty lucky to have him. He does college hockey, but he and Lardo are friends so he does our games sometimes. We only pay him like ten bucks too. Friends and family discount.” Shitty skated back a few feet and hollered at the entire team: “Alright, team, let’s get to work!”

The game itself, once it started, was fine. As Shitty had assured him, despite the rust, he was definitely one of the top two D-men on the ice. Everyone had played to some degree, but most people hadn’t played division one hockey, and it showed. Even Shitty, who’d been in the lower half skill-wise at Samwell, stood out easily among the rest. The other team countered with a few other similarly talented players, but in the end, they won easily.

Despite refereeing being his full time job, the ref managed to swear more than anyone on either team. 

“Two minutes for the most blatant fucking tripping I’ve seen since Woodstock!” he bellowed at Jesse, one of their wingers. Five minutes later: “Two minutes for hooking. Are you trying to fucking catch this guy like a fish?”

Justin went down hard in one of the corners after a rather brutish check. He thought there could have been a boarding call on the play, but instead, the ref just skated up to him, said, “You’re lucky I didn’t call that a dive, bud” and left without another word to go shout at someone else. It didn’t really matter who.  
Diving. Yeah, right. He’d be feeling that hit tomorrow, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to faceplant into the ice earlier. Still, the game was nearly over, and there was no need to cause a scene with someone who was clearly following his own rules when it came to appropriate officiating. 

Their team, helped not insignificantly by him, glided to an easy victory nonetheless. After the buzzer sounded, he congratulated their goalie, and was himself rewarded with several fist bumps and backslaps, including one from Xavier.

“A bunch of us are getting drinks,” said Shitty in the locker room. “You should come.”

He glanced over at Xavier, who was currently tugging on a tight pale green v-neck over his damp hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “I have stuff to do tomorrow.”

“What, and the rest of us don’t? Come on, man,” said Shitty. “Lardo’s been complaining about not seeing enough of you lately.”

Shitty always knew how to persuade him. “Fine,” he said. “But no more than two. I need to be in my office by eight tomorrow morning.”

Once he’d showered and changed, he followed Shitty down the street to a local bar. He scanned the beer selection with mild interest, though not as much interest as he normally might muster. Xavier had struck up a lively conversation with Davey, who was sitting two seats down, and little bits of the conversation drifted towards him. He tried to block it out, but something in the lilt of Xavier’s voice, the rumble as his low voice skirted the edges of his deepest register, continued to draw him in closer. 

A kick to his shin jolted him back to reality.

“Shit,” he swore, and looked up directly into the face of the referee from the game. 

“Sorry,” the guy said, though without too much remorse. “Mind if I sit here?” 

He was already sitting across from him, so it was largely a moot point. “Sure,” said Justin nevertheless. “Help yourself.”

The ref settled into his seat and snatched one of the menus from the table. When the server came around to take their orders, Justin opted for the coffee stout, a local specialty. The ref did the same. There was a lull in the conversation, and Justin glanced upward just in time to make eye contact with the man sitting across from him.

“I didn’t dive, you know,” he said.

“Huh?”

“I didn’t dive. Trust me, the less contact I make with the ice, the better off I am.”

The ref, whose wide blue eyes were blinking slowly in apparent confusion, remained silent.

“Great,” Justin said. “Just wanted to clear that up.”

After a few seconds pause, the ref said, “I’m Adam, by the way.”

The introduction startled him. “What?”

Adam grinned. “Just thought, if you want to be angry at me, it helps to know my name.”

“I’m not angry,” he said. “I just wanted to clarify the situation.” He fiddles with the napkin on the table, picking at its edges.

It wasn’t not until their beers arrive that Adam responded. “I know you didn’t dive,” he said quietly. 

That surprised him. “You do? Then why the hell did you call me out for it?”

“Just joking with you,” said Adam. He met Justin’s eyes with his own, steady, unflinching. “You’re very good, you know. I figured it couldn’t hurt to mess with you a little. You seem like you could use a joke every now and again.”

“You don’t even know me,” Justin retorted, a little short.

“No, you’re right,” Adam conceded. “But I had a feeling.” He takes a long sip from his bottle. “You’re a friend of Shitty’s, right?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve reffed one of his games before. Haven’t seen you out there, and I definitely would have remembered you.”

If this was going to be something about race, about a black hockey player…”Why?”

“Because you’re good. You’re really, really good. Out of practice for sure, but you’re still one of the better ones out on the ice.”

Oh. He cleared his throat. “Well, thanks, I guess. It’s definitely been a while since I’ve played.”

“But you used to?”

“Pardon me?”

Adam leaned back in his chair, tipping it to the point of danger. “I talked to Lardo after the game, asked about you. She said you used to play with the team, until you suddenly stopped.”  
“That’s true.”

“Well,” said Adam, clunking the feet of his chair down on the earth again—Justin breathed a sigh of relief, grateful he wouldn’t have to deal with any head injuries tonight—“You should play more often. It’d be a shame not to.”

Justin drained the rest of his beer. “Thanks for the advice, stranger.”

Adam finished the rest of his drink as well. “If we’re drinking together, then surely I’m at least an acquaintance.” He smacked his lips, savoring the last of the foam around his mouth. “There’s something about you. You feel familiar somehow.”

Adam’s, for lack of a better word, _meaningful_ gaze tickled uncomfortably at the back of his neck, and he glanced away. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” But he felt, for some reason, that Adam might have understood him just a little too well, if the knowing look he gave was any indication.

He joined in the lively debate Shitty had incurred with Lardo and Jesse about the latest James Bond film, and the quality of its action sequences. Adam contributed loudly with his own opinions, providing impressively detailed descriptions of previous movies, even narrating one sequence from Casino Royale nearly shot by shot. The conversation lasted for another round of drinks, but after that, everyone had begun to droop slightly, or to glance at their watch or phone for the time.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Lardo narrowed her eyes in question.

“Forgot my watch back at the rink,” he said. “It’s still open, yeah?”

Shitty nodded. “There are some mite practices, but you should be good to get in. Just knock loudly if the place is locked up.”

“I’ll join you,” said Adam, joining in abruptly. “I think I forgot my spare whistle at the rink as well.”

So he and Adam made the short trip back to the rink, and he would have been lying if he said he wasn’t a little relieved. He and Xavier lived off the same T stop; if he’d gone directly home, they would have needed to travel together. The contact, the closeness and the conversation—it all held its own appeal, but nonetheless, he knew it would have been more pain than pleasure in the end. For his part, Adam made a not unpleasant conversation partner, even if he seemed overly fond of physical contact—placing his hands on Justin’s back, bumping shoulders when they squeezed by other pedestrians on the sidewalk. He wasn’t used to such familiarity, at least from someone he barely knew, but he found he didn’t object to the sensation of a large warm hand on the nape of his neck as he coughed against the cold air.

Once in the locker room, things proceeded quickly.

“Aha,” he said, picking up his watch from the corner of the locker. “Found it. Did you find your whistle?”

He turned to face Adam and nearly collided face first with him. He noticed, abruptly, that Adam was even bigger than he was—two inches taller, and at least fifteen pounds heavier. Solid. Sturdy. Perfect for yanking battling hockey players off each other.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and stepped back.

“Don’t be,” said Adam.

“Really?”

Adam rolled his eyes. “God, you’re bad at this,” he muttered and closed the final inches between them to kiss him, hard, pressing him against the metal of the locker rooms. For a moment, he forgot himself—where he was, the time, Xavier’s lingering aftershave scent—and immersed himself in the kiss. It was, for a moment, exhilarating.

And then he yanked himself back. “What the hell was that?”

Adam’s face held a faint trace of surprise. “I thought that was fairly obvious.” He frowned slightly, a blush tinging his cheeks—a far subtler gesture than Justin would have expected. “Unless, I was reading everything wrong and you’re not interested in men.”

“No, I am,” said Justin, clearing his throat. “I am, I mean, interested in men.”

The frown deepened. “Are you not interested in me?”

Was he? Adam was, objectively, different from everyone he’d ever dated or hooked up with: larger than him, loud, brash, and overzealous. Judging by his clothes—an oversized Buffalo State hoodie, ratty Bruins hat, and faded, washed out jeans—he didn’t place much thought into his appearance. He was blonde with considerable scruff, where most people Justin had dated were brunette or black-haired and clean-shaven, and most importantly, he’d made the first move seemingly impulsively, without much forethought or careful consideration. 

But the last people he’d dated (or wanted to date) had left him only miserable. And Adam was decently attractive and seemed like he knew how to have fun.

“No,” he said, swallowing hard. “I am. I was just thinking, maybe we shouldn’t be doing this in a locker room when the kids might walk in at any minute.”

Adam smiled broadly. “My place or yours?”

Justin led him back to his place, and in the morning, Adam left his number on the table. Justin put it into his phone, but he did not text. It was, for all intents and purposes, a one night affair. A beginning, a middle, and an end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adam conveniently loses yet another beer pong match with Lardo. What a shame he'll have to ref that game.

The next week, he found himself sitting across from Xavier on the green line on his way to work. He had a full schedule of things to do that day; two knee surgeries, several consultations with prospective patients, and a whole mound of paperwork to complete. He needed to focus, and he needed to avoid distraction.

So naturally Xavier took the seat next to his.

“It was good to see you last week,” Xavier began. “It’s been a while.”

He set down his phone, placing it in his pocket. “Yes, I suppose it has.”

They sat in silence for several moments before Xavier tried again. “I just wanted to say, I hope it’s not weird with everything—

“No, it’s not,” he said, cutting him off. “It’s not weird, it’s cool. Everything is cool.”

Xavier nodded. “Yeah, no, that’s great. That’s really great.” He paused. “So maybe we’ll see you again? It’s also good to play with you.”

“Well, I have a very busy schedule.”

“You did before.”

“It only gets busier,” he retorted, somewhat more sharply than he’d intended. “It gets busier and the days don’t get any longer, so it’s hard, you know? It’s hard sometimes.”

The green line squealed, and everyone around them winced. Justin just rolled his eyes and began to envision his day once more. First the two consultations, then the two surgeries, and then after, two more consultations. One surgery should be simple, the other might pose more problems. If he could just get that ligament to…

“Would it be any easier if we talked sometimes? If we got a drink, perhaps? As friends?” Xavier appeared sincere, as if he truly believed what he was saying.

He thought back to the last time they’d really “talked.” He remembered how Xavier had stood before him in his bedroom, stumbled his way around the point with euphemisms, colloquialisms, aphorisms, all to say that he wasn’t comfortable being with a guy, at least not long term. He was afraid of how it would affect his reputation. And while there might have been some truth to that statement, he quite frankly didn’t care. He hadn’t been asking to be paraded around the Boston Commons with a tutu and sign. He’d just wanted a date, something more than their occasional hookups. 

A chance. What he’d wanted was a chance.

And where once Xavier had offered only the benefits without the friendship, now he wanted the reverse.

“No, Xavier,” he said bluntly. “No, it wouldn’t.”

And thought it wasn’t his stop, not even close, he left the car the moment it pulled to a stop. 

 

Shitty convinced him to join in once again, this time when Dex caught the flu and Oliver had sprained his ankle and was taking the week off from hockey. Justin repeated the whole experience—polite nods and pleasantries with Xavier, more enthusiastic greetings with Shitty and Lardo, and stepped out onto the ice to see Adam Birkholtz once again waiting before them.

“I didn’t realize he was going to be here again,” he remarked to Shitty quietly.

Shitty shrugged. “Yeah, we got lucky. Lardo beat him at beer pong the other night, and he had to do this game again. He really should know better by now—she always beats him.”

Adam caught his eye briefly, but he looked away quickly and began his routine warmups without any further interruption.

The game proceeded normally. Their opponent was more skilled than the last one he’d played, but he still managed to skate circles around a few of their less talented players and earn himself a goal and an assist by the end of the second period. Then, five minutes into the third, an errant tumble by number eleven on the opposing team sent both him and Adam crashing into the boards.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” said Adam. Number eleven had managed to crawl off Adam and was shakily but steadily enough levering himself into a standing position. One of his teammates was assisting him, so Justin assumed he could be ignored for now. Adam, on the other hand…

“Where does it hurt?” he asked.

“Go fuck yourself,” spat out Adam.

“I’m a doctor. I’ll repeat, where does it hurt?”

“Getting a Ph.D. in law doesn’t make you a fucking doctor!”

“I’m an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in sports medicine,” he replied calmly. “I think I’m fairly qualified to deal with acute injuries acquired in a hockey game.”

That actually paused Adam’s steady stream of swearing. “Really?”

“What did you think I was?”

“Hey, you’ve got a nice place and you’re a friend of Shitty’s. Figured you met in law school or something.”

“I thought he would have told you. We played together in college, but I would never have touched law school.”

“I guess that makes sense, you being an—oh shit. Fuck me again.”

He knelt down on the ice, carefully maintaining a non-threatening distance between the two of them. “Now that we’ve established that I’m actually a medical doctor, what hurts?”

Adam was clutching his right elbow, but he jerked his chin to the side. “Shoulder. Think it’s out.”

Justin winced. “This happen before?”

Adam nodded. “A few times. Once in high school, once in college, and then again a couple years ago.”

Justin placed his hand gently on Adam’s upper arm and added his other hand to Adam’s elbow to provide some support. “Let’s get you off the rink, yeah? Then we can take you to the ER.”

Adam’s eyes skittered frantically around. “The ER? Do we have to go there? Can’t you just take care of it?”

“Well, if you want any pain medication then yes.”

“The waiting’ll be worse than just doing it now. I don’t mind. I’ve dealt with worse in my college days. If you’re a doctor, I trust you.”

Carefully, with Justin’s help, Adam worked his way to his feet and skated gingerly off to the side of the rink. Shitty leaned over the edge of the boards and questioned Justin with his gaze.

“He’s done for the game,” he said.

“What?” said Adam. “No, I can still do this.”

“The only thing you’ll be doing after I’m done is sitting there with an icepack.”

“Dude, I’ve played hockey after something like this before. I’m pretty sure I can still ref a game.”

“He dislocated his shoulder,” said Justin to Shitty. “I’m taking care of it, and both he and I are done for the day.”

Shitty, mildly alarmed at the news, immediately called the game to a halt. It was fairly clear who was going to win at that point, and he could hear rumblings about simply ending the game. They didn’t have another referee to take over; sometimes they had a linesman or second ref, but Adam was good enough that he usually sufficed alone.

Justin ignored all of them and led Adam back to the locker rooms and into the side room, where there was table and a freezer full of ice, as well as some basic medical supplies. Despite the shoulder, Adam still hopped up onto the table with relative ease and only a mild grimace, and he smiled tightly. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he said grimly.

“I think you should go to an ER,” Justin replied. He began stripping himself of his pads, allowing himself greater range of motion and less encumbrance for the procedure to come.

Adam rolled his eyes. “Like you said, you’re an orthopedic specialist. What would an ER give me that you wouldn’t?”

“Painkillers, for one.”

“I have some leftover stuff back at my place,” Adam said. “Plus a sling back from when I broke my arm a few years ago. Not that I’ll need to use it, but you know, I’m prepared.”

He frowned. “You have leftover stuff at your place?”

Adam sighed. “You know, being a ref hurts sometimes. You get hit by a puck a few times, and it’s amazing what the doctor will give you if you show them an impressive enough bruise.”

He chuckled. “They must not have played enough hockey if that can impress them.”

Adam snorted. “You’re telling me,” he said, and then winced as his shoulder moved a little too much for his taste. “Would you mind getting this over with?”

Adam was remarkably stoic throughout the process, which wasn’t as simple or quick as the movies liked to portray it (at least not if you wanted to avoid fucking up the shoulder even more). Fortunately, though, he liked to think of himself as both an excellent doctor and someone with outstanding bedside manner, so he talked to Adam slowly, using his most calming voice. He recounted a tale of the day his freshman year when Jack had lost a molar after taking a puck to the jaw. Shitty had been horrified, while Jack had remained the perfect hockey robot and barely reacted to anything. Afterwards, his face had resembled that of a chipmunk.

When his shoulder finally slid back into place, Adam swore softly and then remained still for a minute, breathing heavily. Finally, he looked up at Justin with surprisingly sincere blue eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Just doing my job,” said Justin dismissively.

“Well, you’re a good doctor,” said Adam. “And you tell a good story. Sometimes I forget that your team actually had Jack Zimmerman on it. Like, what the hell? That’s insane.”

“He’s a good guy,” said Justin. “Both he and Bitty are.”

“Bitty?”

“Right, uh, Eric Bittle. Another one of our teammates. He and Jack are, well, I don’t know how much you know about the two of them, how much Lardo’s told you…”

“Oh right, the little baker with the Southern accent. I met him a couple times. Definitely not your traditional hockey player, but hey, it works for him.” He grinned at Justin. “And I know the deal with the two of them, so no worries. Lardo gave me the whole rundown.” He tilted his head to the side. “’Sides, it’s not like I give a shit about who people sleep with. Men, women, other.”

A thick layer of tension suddenly settled across the room.

Justin cleared his throat. “Of course.”

They sat in silence for a while. Footsteps echoed behind them, and then Shitty’s voice entered the room. “All good in here? You doing okay, Adam?”

“Peachy,” said Adam, a note of swagger and sarcasm entering his voice. “Fit enough to face Lardo at another match of beer pong, in fact.”

Shitty barked out a laugh. “You’re never ready for that.”

“Just you wait,” said Adam. “One of these days I’ll do it, and the bragging rights will be legendary.”

“You’re right, five hundred to one is an excellent record,” said Shitty, and Justin smothered a laugh. 

Adam glared at Shitty, but his glare softened as his gaze slid over to Justin. “If you’re here, I guess that means you ended the whole thing?”

Shitty nodded. “No point continuing without a ref. Besides, Lardo said she would help you get all your stuff back to your place. You probably shouldn’t be carting around your equipment bag.”

“I’ll go with him,” said Justin abruptly, then quickly backtracked. “I mean, I want to make sure everything’s still okay and that those painkillers you mentioned aren’t expired. It couldn’t hurt.”

Shitty seemed mildly surprised by Justin’s offer, but he didn’t care enough to pursue further questioning. “Sure. I guess that means no drinks tonight?”

“Next time,” said Justin.

“Next time,” said Shitty, and he smiled gleefully. “Oh, there’ll be a next time for sure.”

Justin showered and changed relatively quickly. Adam, who must have still been sore, took a little longer, but he still emerged from the locker room only a few minutes after him with damp hair and a duffel bag in his left hand. Justin grabbed the bag.

“You really don’t have to,” said Adam. He nodded towards the small group of four other men gathered towards the exit. Justin noted with a small pang that said group included Xavier, who was laughing at something Davey had said.

“It’s no problem,” said Justin, looking away. “Now, let’s get on the T, yeah? Shouldn’t be too crowded, hopefully. Where’s the nearest stop to you?”

Adam lived in Somerville, a ten minute walk from Porter Square. They rode in relative silence, though every so often, Adam would make a pithy remark about someone who had just left the subway. He seemed incapable of controlling his urge to sarcastically comment, but Justin didn’t mind. They were usually remarkably specific, remarkably detailed.

“That guy’s sleeping on his couch tonight,” he said, eyes following the backsides of a couple who had just exited the subway car. “Never seen a woman look at her husband like that with good intentions. Bet date night went a bit sour. He thought she preferred lilies to roses, when what she really preferred were irises, or he forgot the name of her beloved Uncle Walter that he’s met half a dozen times at family reunions.”

The night air was relatively mild for winter as they strolled along. Adam rubbed his shoulder unconsciously as they walked, and Justin felt better about his decision to follow him home. When they reached the steps of his building, Adam paused.

“Uh, just so you know, my place is a little bit messy at the moment. Wasn’t really expecting guests tonight.”

“Dude, I lived in what was essentially a frat house for three years. I promise you I’ve seen worse.”

Adam’s place was small and definitely reflected a distinctly untidy owner. It wasn’t terrible, though—just some papers and knickknacks scattered across a small dining table, and dishes still gathered in the sink. Justin placed Adam’s duffel on the table, and set his own equipment bag on the floor.

“Uh, well, I guess I should probably take a look at your medicine cabinet. And I want to take a look at your shoulder. You should probably ice it for swelling.”

Adam nodded tightly. “Just give me a sec. Uh, bags are in the drawer beneath the sink and ice is in the freezer.”

By the time Justin finished wrapping up a bag of ice, Adam emerged from the bathroom with several bottles of pills and a slight smirk. “Am I deemed competent enough now?”

Justin examined the labels, and found them all satisfactory. “I guess so,” he said.

Adam had removed his plaid button down and was wearing only a tank top. There was some swelling in his shoulder, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was all relatively straightforward, and nothing some ice wouldn’t fix.

“Well, I suppose that’s all,” said Justin. “I can get out of your way now.”

Adam cocked his head to the side. “If that’s what you want,” he said.

“What are my other options?”

“Well,” Adam replied slowly. “You could stay. Only if you want to, of course. I figured after you didn’t text last time it was a one-time thing, and you know, that’s cool, but since you’re here…” He grimaced. “Sorry, that was stupid. You’re clearly not interested in anything more.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t text,” said Justin. “It’s just, I’m not looking for anything long-term really—

“Do I look like a guy who needs an engagement ring or some shit after a hookup?” He rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m a simple guy.”

Justin weighed his options. On the one hand, he really wasn’t looking into anything long term, not unless Xavier magically changed his mind and realized Justin was everything he’d ever wanted all along. It had also been a while since he’d had a truly casual relationship, one with no expectations on either end. On the other hand, last time with Adam had been, for lack of a better word, fun. Nothing complicated. Just fun.

Adam rubbed the nape of his neck with his left hand, and shifted his eyes from side to side. “Look, I don’t know what your schedule is like, but maybe, you know, you want to stay and watch a movie, drink a beer here, we can do that too. Sort of as a thank you for saving me the money from having to go the ER.” He grinned sheepishly. “Not that a beer’s the same thing as an ER visit.”

“Well, what do you have?”

“In terms of movies, or in terms of beer?”

“Both?”

The grin changed from sheepish to oddly smug. “Well, I’m glad you asked.”

After seeing the options, Justin wasn’t sure how much disposable income a referee garnered, but he was willing to bed that Adam spent most of it on entertainment. He had a truly remarkable beer selection, filled with a variety in type and alcohol content, but the piece de resistance was the large flatscreen which occupied a shrine-like position in the living room off the side of the kitchen and dining area. Two large towers of DVDs framed the flatscreen, and closer inspection revealed them to be organized alphabetically, with far greater care than anything else in the apartment.

“You’re a movie buff then?” he remarked as he perused the options.

“What gave it away?” responded Adam sarcastically.

“I don’t think I’ve even heard of half of these,” he said, running his finger along their spines. “Sword in the Stone? Kung Fu Hustle? Is this the complete 30 Rock series?”

“With extra commentary.” A hint of pride had entered Adam’s voice. “If you need suggestions, just tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll pick something out.”

“Uh, action is good, I suppose. I don’t really like horror, or nothing with ghosts in it.”

Adam chuckled. “You have a bad experience in a haunted house?”

“More like a haunted Haus,” he muttered under his breath, but then hummed in agreement. 

“Oh, what the hell?” he said, and grabbed Adam’s good shoulder, drawing him in for a rushed kiss. Adam responded enthusiastically, dropping the ice pack and wrapping his long arms around him to encompass him entirely in an embrace. It was strange, that feeling of being entirely surrounded, almost protected from the world. But then Adam was dragging him towards the bedroom, and he had little time to ponder the sensation any further. 

 

The next morning, he texted Adam. _Hey, it’s Justin_ , was all it said.

_Oh, look who finally decided to do the honorable thing_ , was the reply.

He smiled to himself, a private smile. He refrained laugh out loud—not on the subway in front of hordes of strangers on the morning commute—but it was close. He didn’t respond to the text, but it wasn’t important. Now it was a two way street.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not in college anymore, but who says they can't have a little fun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

A routine established itself a haphazardly over the next several months. Justin began playing regularly, much to Shitty’s delight, and Adam began losing to Lardo at beer pong or poker on a weekly basis, forcing him to ref their little beer league games. He would recount his ill luck at the bar after the game, sighing heavily before shooting Justin a wink and nudging his foot under the table. If anybody noticed their interaction, they made no comment. Xavier was as cordial—and as platonic—as ever, and slowly, little by little, the pang in his heart lessened whenever they locked eyes. Sometimes Adam would shoot him a text, a quick you up?

Usually he was, and they would spend the evening ensconced in each other’s arms.

After the season was done, Justin offered up his condo as a place for their end of season party. It wouldn’t be quite as lethal as their college-day kegsters, but there would be copious alcohol for those who wanted it and enough trash talk to put insult comics to shame. The party wasn’t starting until eight, but around six the buzzer from the entrance to his condo building sounded.

He pressed the com button. “Who is it?”

“Uh, Adam?” said a grainy voice. 

Justin glanced at his watch. “You’re a little early, aren’t you?”

“Am I? Fuck man, it’s pouring out here. Could you just buzz me in?”

Adam arrived at the door dripping rain from his hair and clutching two six pack of craft brew under his arms. He squinted into apartment through wire-framed glasses which Justin had never seen before and made a small noise. “Huh. First one here.”

Justin looked him strangely. “Yeah. Tends to happen when you’re two hours early.”

“Two hours! But the email said six.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, the email said eight.”

“Ah, fuck,” said Adam, and pushed his glasses across the bridge of his nose. “I lost my contacts, and the lenses on these babies are a little out of date, so I must have misread it.” He glanced around the empty foyer. “I can come back in a couple of hours.”

He stepped aside. “No need for that. You’d only have half an hour at most and then need to turn around again to get back here. Sounds like a waste of time.”

Adam seemed genuinely surprised. “You sure?”

“Of course. Come on in. I’m still cleaning, and you can make yourself useful.”

Water spattered across the floor as Adam crossed the threshold, his hair practically serving as a sprinkler, watering the imaginary plants strewn across the floor. Justin grimaced.

“Did you bring an umbrella?” he asked, then took a second look at Adam, who now that he was paying attention, was actually soaked to the skin. “Or even a raincoat?”

Now it was Adam’s turn to grimace. “Uh, well, funny story. I sort of left my umbrella on the subway last week and lent my raincoat to my sister the last time she visited and she never gave it back.”

“I don’t see how that’s a funny story.”

“Well, don’t blame me for your lack of creativity,” said Adam. “Point is, I have neither of those things, so here I am. On the plus side, if you’re cleaning, I could act as a human mop.”

“Or,” he said, pulling Adam through the living room and towards the bedroom, “you can behave like a normal person and borrow some of my clothes. We shouldn’t be that far off size-wise, and you actually left a pair of jeans here last week since you decided to wear your ref pants when you left.”

He held out a button down. Adam stared at it in horror.

“What on God’s green earth is that?” he whispered.

Justin glanced down at the shirt. “My shirt?”

“You own salmon colored shirts?” Adam said, with genuine horror. “Please don’t tell me you have a pair of salmon shorts.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“I would rather die than wear that shirt.” He radiated such sincerity that Justin almost believed him. 

“Fine, fine, how’s this? A nice shade of blue. Or is that offensive to you somehow as well?”

Adam snatched the shirt away. “No, this is fine. I only have a few rules when it comes to clothing, you know. You just managed to violate the most important one.”

Justin quirked an eyebrow. “And what might the other rules be?”

“No sweatpants outside unless I’m sick or with my sisters. No gray socks. And no wearing plaid more than two days in a row.” He shrugged. “The last one is just superstition. But most importantly, nothing salmon color will ever touch my skin.”

“Hmm,” said Justin. Suddenly, an idea popped into his mind. He removed his own shirt—an old Samwell t-shirt he’d been wearing just for the purposes of cleaning—and inserted his arms into the salmon button down. Then, slowly, he began to fasten each button, lingering as long as possible on each one. All the while, Adam watched, first in confusion, then in growing horror. 

He tapped his watch. “It’s currently 6:15, which means we have more than an hour and half until people start arriving. Let’s say we want to factor in a shower and enough time for us to dry, although in your case, I think you’re wet enough already. That should be what, half an hour? And another half an hour of cleaning, I think, if we work together. Plus five or so minutes to change and shave. Which leaves…” he glanced down at his timepiece again, “forty minutes of free time to spend however you wish, on one condition.” He stared directly into Adam’s wide eyes. “I will not remove a single item of clothing myself.”

Adam placed his hands on Justin’s waist and began to fiddle with the belt buckle. “You drive a hard bargain, Justin Oluransi,” he said seriously. “Only you forget one thing—the sooner you’re out of that hideous shirt, the happier I will be.”

Justin kissed him. “Then we have thirty-nine minutes and counting.”

 

They might have all been in their late twenties and early thirties, but they were still hockey players, so by ten, he knew that they would be providing excellent business for the ubers and taxis of Boston. Lardo had started a pong tournament across the kitchen table, and she was destroying everyone in her path; only Nursey posed even a slight threat, but his rather high blood alcohol content prevented him from actually challenging. 

Justin knew most of the people there—or he’d at least seen them wasted—but Adam was entirely new creature. They’d gone for drinks before, of course, and shared beers before or after sex, but neither of them had consumed enough beers to really make an impact. He’d occasionally imagined what Adam might be like drunk; he imagined a snarkier, bitingly sarcastic drunk, as he’d discovered that Adam tended to make more snide remarks when fatigued, almost as a mechanism of warding of those he didn’t want to be around. Or, he’d imagined, Adam might be even more of a mess than he already was—forgetting the clothes off his own back and falling over non-existent bumps in the floor.

Drunk Adam, as it turned out, was simply loud. Loud and entirely without a filter. This naturally made him the life of the party.

“Did I tell you about the time I had to pull off a guy who was literally biting the other player? You could see the teeth marks!” he proclaimed enthusiastically to an enraptured audience.

“Anyone we know?” asked Jesse.

“The guy who was biting? Nah, fuck him. Pretty sure the guy who was bitten is playing for the Kings’ minor league team, whatever the hell that is. Might have gotten a call up, but who knows.”

Jesse and Dex frowned in disappointment.

“Well, we can’t all have played with Jack Zimmerman,” said Adam. “You all got spoiled. Seriously can’t believe he was on your team, dude,” he said to Shitty. “If I ever met the man, I’d probably act like an eight year old and just ask for an autograph. Me, a grown man who is basically the same age.”

“I hope you brought a sharpie then!” called out Lardo from across the room. “Falcs were playing the Bruins tonight, and Jack said he and Bitty would stop by after the game. Should be arriving soon, yeah?”

Adam whipped around to face Justin, who shrugged. “Is this true?” he demanded to know.

“Yeah, it is.”

“And you didn’t bother mentioning this?”

“They’re my friends, dude, don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not going to be weird,” said Adam, but Justin already knew him well enough to know that was going to be a lie.

Around midnight, he had to admit to himself that no, he wasn’t twenty anymore, and no, perhaps he hadn’t really paced himself all that well. Bitty and Jack’s arrival had caused some commotion as those who didn’t know them alternated between staring at Jack with wide eyes and then dropping their jaws once Bitty opened his mouth and a Southern drawl emerged from his tiny little body. Justin just scooped Bitty into a massive hug and even managed to drag Jack into the festival of love as well. Something in Jack’s expression told him he might have been a bit drunker than he imagined, but he honestly didn’t care.

By midnight he did care. He didn’t want to care, but the room swirled around him alarmingly and he could feel the ground tilt from side to side beneath his feet. There was a crack in the floor he’d been meaning to fix for months now, but it hadn’t really bothered him, at least not until his toe caught in the crevice and sent him flying across the room…

…and right into someone’s arms.

“I think you’re even drunker than me,” said Adam’s voice with some surprise.

“I just tripped,” he mumbled.

“Believe me,” said Adam, his chuckle merely a low rumble in his chest, “I know tripping when I see it.” He helped him to his feet, adjusting his glasses which had come loose during the ordeal, and adopted an almost pensive look. “You’re kind of cute when you’re sloshed.”

“Cute?”

“Well, normally you’re just mind-bogglingly, unattainably, flabbergastingly handsome,” he said. “But, you know, now you’re a little bit more human. It’s good to know brain surgeons can get wasted as good as the next guy.”

“I’m not a brain surgeon.”

“I know you’re not,” said Adam. “Just testing to see how far gone you really are.”

Justin paused, backtracked in their conversation, and frowned. “Do you really think that?”

“That you’re wasted? Uh, yeah, I do.”

“No, that I’m handsome. Floggingly handsome, did you say?”

Adam burst out laughter. “Flabbergastingly, actually.” He placed his hand on Justin’s arm, as if to steady him, or perhaps just to maintain contact. “I mean, yeah. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it by now, but you’re really fucking hot. A great person, too, but also really hot.”

Justin blinked. “I’m not sure what to say?”

Adam shrugged. “You could say thank you. Or you could kiss me. I’ll take either one.”

Justin didn’t hesitate. He kissed Adam there, standing in the corner of his living room and felt nothing else other than the soft scruff across Adam’s chin, the gentle bite of his teeth as they tugged at his lower lip. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but a haze clouded his mind and shrouded his skin in something tingly and warm. And even though, ostensibly, Adam was the one who was supposed to be supporting him, somehow he felt as if it were Adam who were holding on for dear life.

“You coming up for air anytime soon?” came Shitty’s drawl from somewhere off to the right. 

Justin separated himself from Adam, though kept his fingers on Adam’s elbow, unwilling to relinquish the other man entirely. 

“Hi, yes, I’m here” he said, and wow, was he drunk. He could hear it in his voice, the casual slur to his words, and the way he stuttered over sentences which should have been afterthoughts. “I’m here,” he repeated, just to assure everyone else in the room.

He caught Shitty exchanging a glance with Adam, and he tried to muster up the courage to feel irate, but he only found a sloppy, ill-defined contentment, something he hadn’t felt in years, if he were being honest. He slumped across Adam even further, and Adam shouldered his additional weight easily. 

“I’d say you should take him home, but…” said Lardo, gesturing around the room. 

“I’m fine,” he said, waving his arms, and he nearly took down both himself and Adam when he misjudged his center of gravity. “Adam knows how things work here.”

“Does he?” said Lardo skeptically. 

“Sure he does,” said Justin, and he noticed at that point that Adam was blushing furiously beneath the inquisitive gazes of a gathering crowd of people. Even Jack had caught onto something, and Jack had the observational skills of an old, blind tortoise.

“I think it’s time for you to take a break,” said Adam, and gripped Justin’s arm with enough force to steady him but not enough to bruise. “You can come back after you’ve had some water.”

Without further ado, Adam dragged the two of them towards Justin’s room, shut the door behind them, and heaved Justin’s body on top of the bed. At first, Justin thought he might be hearing a lecture, or something patronizing. Then Adam burst into a smile of sheer delight.

“You must have been such a good time at parties.”

He snorted. “Must have been? I think I’m a pretty good time right now.”

“No, I mean at college. Before people had real jobs and shit.”

He smiled lazily to himself. “I did run the kegsters every year. Shitty helped, and then I corralled Tango and Bitty into helping as well. Let’s just say, good times were had by y’all.” He hiccupped. “Sorry, all. It’s sort of—Bitty, he’s like butter? Just rubs off on you.”

Adam laughed, throwing back his head. “Never thought I’d hear a Canadian say y’all.”

“You know, I never liked it much—the Southern accent I mean—til I met Bitty. I see its appeal now. Like, I get that maybe Jack finds it sexy or something. That man is such a mystery sometimes.”

Adam scooted closer to him. “And what about you? What do you find sexy?’

Justin leveled his gaze. “If you’re asking me if a Buffalo accent turns me on, the answer’s gonna have to be a solid no.”

“So it’s just my body that you like me for,” said Adam.

Justin yanked him in for a kiss, a slow, sloppy make out which only lasted slightly longer than the one outside. Adam didn’t resist, just held the two of them steady on the bed. Adam’s tongue tasted of beer, the dark stout kind, and he was sure he tasted much the same.

“I do like you,” he blurted out, breaking away. 

“Good. I’d hate to think you do that to all the men you meet.”

“And I don’t care if people see us. I don’t give a shit what people know.”

Adam’s expression was wry yet puzzled. “Again, given the display out there, that’s probably for the best.”

“I just,” he said, and he knew the words he wanted to stay, but his brain was keeling over like it had during his frog year at the first kegster, and all the sounds caterwauled around in his mind, refusing to cohere. “I just—you’re good with this? With people knowing?”

The subtle wrinkles at the corners of Adam’s eyes softened. “Yeah, if you’re cool with this, I’m cool with this too.”

Adam stated this as if it should be obvious, and Justin wanted to tell him that it wasn’t, that not just Xavier but the last two other men he’d seen, they’d all needed to hid him from some or all of their lives. It wasn’t that Justin needed to march around Boston pride with a rainbow thong, making out on a parade float, but there were other ways to exist. Ways like making out in front of a large group of people, including one very famous hockey player.

“I like you,” he said again, because he did. And Adam, standing under the light of the three bulbs in his overhead fixture, dressed in red-plaid flannel and loose jeans, Adam had never looked so simply beautiful before. “I like you,” he repeated, because he could.

Adam just kissed him, and the line between alcohol and hormone-induced haze blurred. But then Adam broke away and said, “As much as I’d love to do this, you do have about thirty guests out there. So we’re going to get you some water, and then you are going to play proper host to all those people out there.”

“Who the fuck sent you to finishing school?” he muttered, but conceded the point. And if Adam had to steady him slightly as they stepped back into the dark not ten minutes later, he strangely didn’t mind.

At least, not that he remembered. 

 

The next morning, Justin awoke with a raging headache the likes of which he hadn’t felt since undergrad. He moaned aloud, forgetting for a moment where he was—and who he was with.

“Well, rise and shine,” boomed Adam’s voice from just outside the room.

“Oh my God,” said Justin. The memory of last night rushed back in one crashing, mortifying wave. “Oh my God, is everyone still here?”

Adam snorted. “Fuck no, man. It’s just me. I figured someone needed to take care of you and maybe do a little cleaning so that you didn’t vomit immediately upon stepping into the kitchen.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, maybe we could avoid the topic of vomit and all other bodily fluids for right now.”

“Aren’t you a doctor?”

“Yes, and when I’m doing doctorly things, I definitely don’t have the mother of all hangovers. That sort of shit leads to malpractice, which is like the first thing they drill into you your first day at the hospital.” He buried his head back into the pillow, moaning again. Then he processed the other part of Adam’s statement. “Wait, you cleaned?”

Adam actually blushed. “Look, I know the state of my apartment might not give the impression that I know how to clean, but I’m not entirely useless.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. “You just…you just didn’t have to do that. Like at all.”

“For what it’s worth, it wasn’t entirely me. Shitty and Dex were helping as well, but then Dex puked in the bathroom, and then it was just Shitty. So, you know.”

“Dex is never going to hear the end of this,” said Justin.

“I imagine not, no,” said Adam lightly. He leaned against the doorframe casually, his large body still taking up most of the space there. Justin thought absentmindedly that if the door were a goal, Adam would make an excellent goalie.

“Uh,” he said, clearing his throat, “Not that you need to leave or anything, but you also don’t have to stay. I promise I’m not going to die when left to my own devices.”

“But then how would I eat all this fine breakfast I just made?”

Justin blinked. “You made breakfast?”

“Ding ding ding!” said Adam. “So let’s say you shower and then we can talk eggs and bacon.”

He emerged from the shower still dripping slightly, but the absolutely deadly smell of breakfast enticed him to forgo his usual careful morning routine. Two plates of eggs, bacon and what looked like French toast awaited him. Without a word, he shoved a forkful of all three foods into his mouth and didn’t bother to hold back his groan of pleasure.

“Holy fuck,” he said. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“My mom,” said Adam a bit smugly. “She said the only way to make French toast was with Challah bread, and I wholeheartedly agree.”

“Well tell your mom that I could practically kiss her right now.”

Adam flinched, and Justin recoiled, realizing he might have said something offensive. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean—

“No, it’s not that. Um, it’s just, you know, she died.”

His fork clattered on the plate, dropped from his suddenly limp fingers. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. Wow, I am not doing so hot this morning.” He pinched his brow, then treaded carefully with his next words. “Do you mind if ask, but when did she, you know?”

“Ten years ago,” said Adam.

“Ten years ago? So you must have been, oh God, you were only nineteen.”

Adam grimaced. “Yeah. That wasn’t great. Especially since my youngest sister, Juliet, was only eight. That was pretty rough.”

Adam took a sip of his coffee, drinking from one of the several Samwell mugs Justin owned. This particular one was covered with the signatures of his lab members from undergrad, some of whom he hadn’t thought about in years. He’d been so young then, in undergrad, so unprepared. Adam had lost his mother at that age.

“Were you in school?’

Adam shook his head. “Actually, I was in juniors, USHL in Iowa. Probably would’ve played another year there, but I just took the year off, worked, helped my dad take care of my sisters. I’d been thinking about going farther away for school, but I wanted to stay close to home after all that. So Buff State it was.” He offered a crooked grin. “You know, I might’ve gone to Samwell. I was in talks with the coaches before my mom died. We would’ve played on the same team.”

Suddenly, everything from his eggs to his headache to his mound of paperwork waiting in his office seemed unimportant. “Holy shit,” was all he could manage.

Adam shrugged. “It was a while ago. My dad even remarried about five years ago, and she’s been really great. I mean, she’ll never replace my mom, but she’s good with my sisters, good for my dad. So yeah, not a good situation, but my stepmom’s basically the best I could’ve asked for given the circumstances.”

Justin did the only thing he could think of. He reached out across the table and grabbed one of Adam’s hands. His deep brown hand covered Adam’s own pale, freckled one almost entirely, and he squeezed gently. The gestured surprised Adam, but he didn’t pull away. Instead he half-smiled.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a downer. I usually don’t get into this territory with the guys I’m sleeping with.”

“How about with friends? I have known you for half a year now.”

Adam looked up slowly, expression inscrutable. “Friends? Yeah, I guess I can do it with friends.” He broadened his smile. “You know, I think if I had gone to Samwell, we would have gotten along pretty well.”

The air thickened as it passed into his lungs, clogging his thoughts. He needed to lighten the mood, since Adam clearly wanted to. This was hungover breakfast the day after a party. He gulped and drew back his hand.

“Well, if you made breakfast like this, I’m sure we would have been best friends.”

The conversation drifted to safer territory after that. And for hours, they just talked. They talked until the coffee grew cold in its pot and the gooey yolk of the eggs had congealed. Adam possessed an impressive repertoire of pop culture knowledge, including a near encyclopedic knowledge of 30 Rock and the entire Bond franchise, among others. His love of entertainment extended to musical theater as well, and when Justin revealed that he had played the role of the Prince in in his eighth grade’s production of Cinderella, he looked like the circus had just to come to town.

“You mean you can sing?”

Justin grimaced. “Well, I could sing fine for an eighth grader, I suppose. There wasn’t exactly heavy competition.”

“You’ve got to demonstrate now. I need to hear this.”

So he sang the opening bars to “Ten Minutes Ago,” fumbling for the exact lyrics but carrying the tune fairly well, he thought. Adam listened rapturously.

When he stopped, trailing off after the first verse, Adam considered his performance seriously.

“You were a little off on your A sharp—it was more of a B flat—but color me impressed.” He hummed back each of the notes for reference.

Justin felt like he ought to be the impressed one. “Wait, can you tell what note I’m singing just by hearing it?”

Adam shrugged. “Sure. It’s not that hard.”

Justin leaned back in his chair, tipping it precariously onto two legs. “Actually, it really is. Well, maybe not for you, but for most people, yes it absolutely is.”

Again, Adam brushed it off. “Whatever it is, it makes listening to most people sing annoying. I can tell exactly how off they are. Reality TV singing competitions are basically torture.” He smiled brightly. “Don’t worry, you were quite good.”

He scoffed, but he wasn’t about to argue with the guy who apparently possessed perfect pitch. He wondered if he could get Adam to sing as well.

In the end, with almost no prompting at all, Adam launched into the entire soundtrack of Sweeney Todd. He deep bass boomed across the kitchen, rippling in the cold coffee, and Justin was left entirely unsure what to do with the warmth tingling in his stomach, even long after Adam had left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin's never been that great at commitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments so far--they really are food for the soul. That said...
> 
> You know how every good story needs conflict? Well, here goes

Even with the beer league season over, many team members still enjoyed weekly drinks, or twice-weekly drinks in the case of Lardo, Shitty and a few others. Adam was running late from his summer job (helping to run a mite hockey camp, an exercise more in patience than any real hockey ability), but Justin deposited his briefcase into the seat next to him to mark off the place for Adam. This gesture did not slip past Lardo’s notice.

 

“You expecting someone?” she said, teasing.

 

“Just Adam,” he said, perusing the beer menu as if he hadn’t already memorized their selection years ago. He glimpsed the shared look between Lardo and Shitty and set down the menu. “What?”

 

“So, how long have you two been dating?” she asked simply.

 

The question took him aback. “We’re not dating.”

 

“Right, so you two making out at your party last weekend, that was just for kicks? And him knowing his way around your kitchen and your entire place, that’s just a lucky guess?”

 

“He knew where to put everything when he was helping to clean up,” confirmed Shitty.

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, we have been sleeping together. So yeah, he knows his way around my place. Doesn’t mean we’re dating.”

 

“And how many times have you slept together?” asked Lardo.

 

“I don’t know.” He thought back over the past months. At first, it had been just once a week, after games, but the past few months, they’d taken to meeting up outside of hockey. Initially, Adam would provide some pretense, saying he was in the area after working at BU or BC, or Justin mentioning that band he wanted to see at Toad, a dive bar in Porter square, but lately, one of them would just text “hey” and the other would say yes or no, depending on availability and scheduling. Even with the several week gap in between their first and second encounters, they must have slept together at least thirty or forty times.

 

And then there were the countless texts in between those days, the bitching about work or about how reality cooking shows would never measure up to _Chopped_. The times Adam would send him ridiculous gifs of hockey from the games the night before. Those weren’t times spent sleeping together, but…they were _something_.

 

“Let me rephrase,” said Lardo, already impatient. “How long have you been sleeping together.”

 

That question he could answer more easily. “About six months, I guess.”

 

Shitty guffawed into his drink. “Six months?”

 

“How often?” Lardo pressed.

 

“I don’t know, at first once a week, but more like two or three these past few months. Why does it matter?”

 

Lardo exchanged yet another annoying glance with Shitty. “Look, Rans, we don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but sometimes you can be, how should I say this…”

 

“Indecisive. Really, really indecisve,” finished Shitty.

 

Did Lardo and Shitty actually believe he had commitment issues? “I’ve dated plenty of people before. This is just different.”

 

“Have you ever asked someone out before?” asked Shitty.

 

He opened his mouth to say, “Of course I have,” but then he froze. The only person he’d ever asked was Xavier. Everyone else he’d dated—March in college, Jake in medical school, Irina in residency, they’d simply said “we’re dating,” deciding for him. The one time he’d actually worked up the courage to ask for himself, he’d been fully rejected. It was better to keep a good thing going, better to avoid complications.

 

“How’s the party kicking?” crowed a voice from the other end of the bar.

 

Justin cleared away the seat next to him. “About time you showed up.”

 

Adam slid into the seat and slung his arm around Justin’s shoulders. “Nothing you do or say can upset me, not after the sweet release of getting the fuck away from those dicks at the rink.”

 

“The children?” said Lardo.

 

“Oh no, the kids are fine. It’s the parents who are the monsters.” Adam looked around expectantly. “So who here’s ordering me a beer?”

 

Adam’s arrival silenced Lardo and Shitty’s verbal interrogation, but the knowing looks and subtle, voiceless questions continued throughout the rest of the night, especially when Adam’s arm remained curled around Justin’s shoulder even once the beers arrive. When they finally left—together—Lardo’s gaze burned two narrow holes into his back.

 

“So,” said Adam, strolling out into the night. “I was thinking, I’ve got a chance to go see a Sox game tomorrow. Pretty decent seats too. You wanna join?”

 

Tomorrow was Saturday. “Is it an evening or afternoon game?”

 

“Afternoon,” said Adam lightly, and Justin thought back to his conversation with Shitty and Lardo before. An afternoon baseball game was fine with a friend, but with someone you were sleeping with? It felt a whole lot like a date.

 

“Long as you don’t mind me having a couple drinks before the game as well,” said Justin.

 

“Dude,” said Adam. “I would expect nothing less.” Then Adam gulped hard, and Justin sensed he was nervous, though he wasn’t sure why. “And, uh, while we’re at it, and it’s totally cool if you’re not free or you know, just don’t want to, but my dad’s gonna be in town next weekend. Making the trip from Buffalo. So, I was thinking, and again no pressure, but maybe you’d want to meet him? Of course, you’re probably busy and don’t have the time, but I thought, maybe…”

 

Adam wasn’t looking at him, instead just staring directly ahead as they walked down the sidewalk along Boylston Street.

 

 “Adam,” Justin said. “I would love to meet your dad.”

 

Then, almost without thinking, he reached out and grabbed Adam’s hand. Adam started, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he just shifted his fingers so that they were well and truly holding hands. Just two men walking down the street on a spry summer evening, where the summer heat had nothing to do with the warmth kindling inside his chest.

 

 

On late Friday, Justin received a strange text while still at the hospital. Xavier’s name flashed up on his screen. _Please, meet me at my place tonight. I need to talk about something._

 

They hadn’t exchanged texts in months—the last message was from before their “break-up.”

 

 _What is it?_ He texted back.

 

 _I came out to my parents and it didn’t go well_ , came Xavier’s quick reply, and Justin’s heart sank. This could be bad.

 

 _I’ll be over once my shift has finished_ , he replied. _Just another hour_.

 

He arrived outside of Xavier’s building an hour and a half later and was quickly buzzed in. He’d hoped it wasn’t bad, but the moment he stepped into Xavier’s apartment, he knew it had been awful.

 

“I’m sorry,” said Xavier. “I just…I didn’t know who else to talk to about this.” His voice trembled. “There aren’t—there aren’t many people who know about me.”

 

“And I’m one of them,” he said, putting on his best bedside manner. “Look, I understand. It’s fine. Just talk to me about it.”

 

He listened compassionately for more than two hours over a shared bottle of bourbon, nodding along in the right places of the story, offering a hand on the shoulder as Xavier relayed the exact, harsh words his father had thrown at him. He knew abstractly that Xavier’s parents were intensely Catholic, and Xavier had expected trouble, but he hadn’t anticipated exactly how much pain his parent’s pronouncements of “You’re going straight to hell,” would affect him.

 

“Shit, man,” he said. “That’s—that’s really rough. And I want to say I know for sure that things will get better, but I also don’t want to lie to you, and I don’t want to offer platitudes when it hurts this much right now.”

 

Xavier wiped away a stray tear which had begun to trail down his cheek. “Fuck, you were always a good friend, Justin.”

 

“Yeah, I was,” he said stiffly, and Xavier looked up.

 

“I know I was terrible, with the way things ended,” Xavier admitted. “I was scared, even of people I didn’t need to be scared of. Look at all your friends—Shitty, Lardo, Jack, Bitty, they wouldn’t have given a damn if I came out.”

 

“Bitty might have baked you a cake,” he said.

 

Xavier chuckled weakly. “Yeah, he might’ve. Look, I’m sorry about before. I’m really sorry.”

 

Justin nodded. “I understand, I do.” He held out his arms, offering a hug.

 

Xavier embraced him warmly, and Justin recalled why he’d almost fallen for the man in his arms. Even as an emotional wreck, Xavier smelled like lavender, and he knew that if need be, he could also pull himself together in the time it took to get to court and argue a flawless case. He’d always admired that about him.

 

“You know, I’ve missed you Justin,” whispered Xavier. He moved one of his hands slowly down from Justin’s back to his thigh. “I really have.”

 

Justin froze. “Xavier…no.”

 

Xavier retreated halfway, but still kept his body close. “Look, I know I fucked up, I know I did. But, I was just so scared, so fucking terrified. Can you understand that?”

 

His eyes were like warm caramel, even when reddened by tears.

 

“I understand where you were coming from,” he said.

 

“Then maybe you can also understand why I feel like I can be brave now,” said Xavier. “Why I can do this.”

 

He kissed Justin, and the smell of lavender intensified, along with the tinge of bourbon on his breath, and Justin? Well, Justin didn’t pull away.

 

 

 

He made it back to his condo building after noon the next day. After waking up late the next morning still groggy and a tad hungover, Xavier had insisted on making breakfast. French toast with fruit. Justin had agreed to that much.

 

“Where were you this morning?” came a soft voice from the steps by his front door. He turned and spotted a tuft of blond hair just poking over the brick wall.

 

Shit. Adam. The breakfast.

 

“Adam,” he began, but Adam stood and used all of his considerable physical presence to control the conversation.

 

“I called you four times, but your phone just went to voicemail.”

 

He gulped. “My phone died. I didn’t have my charger on.”

 

“So, what, you went for a run without music? You purposefully went out without it?” Adam squinted through his glasses. “Or, you didn’t spend the night at home and you’re just getting back now.”

 

“Adam,” he said, but he didn’t have anything more to say. At least, nothing which would improve the situation. Nothing which wouldn’t be a lie.

 

“You know,” continued Adam, settling into a rhythm now. “You know, I normally don’t consider myself a clingy type. You’re welcome to spend the night wherever you please, with friends or at a bar or at the hospital. It’s fine. I don’t need to know where you are.” He takes a deep breath. “But, I’m not going to lie, it does suck a little when I figure out you slept with Xavier through a goddamn Instagram post about the brunch you were supposed to be having with me. With my _parents_.”

 

Now Justin is confused. “Instagram post?”

 

“I follow the dude on Instagram. I’ll give that much—you do have good taste. He’s smoking hot, and I enjoy living vicariously through the pictures of Caribbean vacations I can’t afford. And like, I can appreciate that about the guy. I can even put up with his stupid food pictures every now and then, because it means I get to see his abs on the next post. But imagine my surprise when I see some hands on this morning’s “lazy morning brunch” message to the world. Your hands.”

 

“How could you tell?” Justin asked, which in retrospect, was probably the worst possible response.

 

“Not many people have a fish-hook scar on their ring finger,” said Adam. “Fuck me if I don’t know what your hands look like, not after they’ve been all over me.”

 

He stared at Adam, then at the ground, then back at Adam again, as if Adam (and really the entire situation, the entire prior day might just vanish if he looked away. But Adam was still there, and instead of angry, he just looked very, very sad.

 

“You know, my dad thinks I made you up.”

 

“What? Why on earth—

 

“Because it’s happened before,” said Adam bluntly. “What, you think you’re the first hot rich guy I’ve slept with? The first one I’ve cared about enough to introduce to my parents? Except, same thing as before, the guy blows me off, says he’s rethought the whole thing, the whole relationship. He’s thought about how we’re at ‘different places in our lives.’ And I’m sitting at a table for three with just my dad, and I’m trying to convince him that his broke-ass gay son isn’t just making up a this super hot, amazing doctor. Second time around’s a lot harder, though. ‘Specially when there’s no one in between.”

 

Adam slumps, defeated, and Justin longs to reach out to him to comfort him. Instead, he remains stiff-armed and silent. Neither of them speaks for a minute until Adam finally asks:

 

“How did it happen?” When he doesn’t respond at first, Adam asks again, “How did it happen? Who made the first move?”

 

“He did,” said Justin. He can at least say that honestly.

 

“And then you, what, just rolled over?”

 

“No,” said Justin. “No, I told him no. Told him I didn’t need anything from him if was just going to do what he did last time. I told him I wasn’t interested in just sex.”

 

A flash of pain flickered across Adam’s face. He’d said the wrong thing yet again. “He just—he said things were different. He’d figured some things out. And then he kissed me again and I—I didn’t say no. I didn’t sleep with him, you know stuff happened. Then I was a bit drunk and I fell asleep there and spent the night.”

 

Adam appeared to be waiting for something, but Justin had nothing more to offer. Finally, he spoke quietly. “So, that was all it took? For him to give some empty promise that things would be different?”

 

“I had been in love with him,” said Justin. “I had fallen in love, and he broke my heart. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

 

“Clearly,” said Adam, and the poison in his voice could have murdered. A terrifying note of iciness, like liquid nitrogen, capable of burning human flesh on contact. “At least, if you’re in love with Xavier, it won’t be a problem when I say I never want to see you again.”

 

“No,” he said. “No, Adam, it was a mistake. I realized that the moment I left his place. I realize it now.” Then he opened his mouth and uttered the words he would come to regret more than anything else in the entire regretful conversation. “We never even said we were exclusive!”

 

Adam just looked very, very sad. “You’re right, we never said we were exclusive. Never even said we were in a real relationship, so technically, this isn’t cheating. But I asked you to meet my family, Justin,” he said simply. “And if you truly knew me and cared about me the way the way I care—the way I _cared_ about you, you would know exactly what that means. And you would have remembered to come anyways.”

 

Justin had no answer. There were no words he could speak which could undo his transgressions, could convince Adam not to leave him. So he simply watched Adam walk away, watched him as his hair rippled in the breeze as he passed through the straight, out of sight, and out of Justin’s life.

 

 

It wasn’t until Adam had left his life that he realized how many little ways he’d invaded it before. Even when not physically together, Justin had taken to texting with him about any move he saw, any new show he was trying out. Adam held strong opinions on nearly everything, and they could bicker for hours (or Adam could rant for hours while Justin listened) about little things. He missed the pad thai from Lemon Thai, the place Adam always ordered from when they did takeout at his place, and how they always ordered twice as much as Justin thought they would need, only for Adam to devour it in an impressively efficient manner.

 

But more than the food or the discussions, he missed Adam’s voice. It was always inescapable and it penetrated even the most sound-proofed walls. He caught himself listening for Adam’s pitch-perfect bass belting out the latest Ariana Grande in the morning shower. He caught himself waiting for gentle snoring before falling asleep.

 

He missed Adam like he would miss his best friend. He missed him in little ways, in large ways, in all the ways in between.

 

Mostly he’d just missed his chance.

 

 

He confessed everything to Shitty one evening at his place when it was just the two of them. Not that he didn’t trust Lardo, but he wasn’t sure he could handle the disappointment sure to be on her face. Adam was more her friend than Shitty’s in the first place.

 

“Damn, Oluransi. And he hasn’t responded to any of your texts?”

 

Justin shook his head. “Radio silence. I even called, left a message. Nothing. I think I really fucked up here.”

 

Shitty grimaced. “Yeah, you did. Which is really too bad, because I think you two worked together really well. At least, from what little I saw.”

 

“Have you ever screwed up this bad before, Shits?”

 

Shitty considered Justin through the lens of his tumbler of whiskey. He peered into it, as if the answer to the question lay within finely aged Canadian alcohol. “No,” said Shitty. “But someone did it to me.”

 

“And?”

 

“And I haven’t spoken to them since,” said Shitty. “Which probably isn’t the answer you want to hear.”

 

Justin sighed. “No, no it isn’t.”

 

Shitty wiggled his mustached uneasily. “And the guy you, uh, the guy you hooked up with?”

 

“I told him I wasn’t interested in anything long term. That it was a one-night thing, and a mistake to boot.”

 

“Adam’s pretty stubborn from what I’ve seen,” said Shitty. “And from what Lardo’s told me. But it’s only been a week, he may soften with some time. Just make sure you’re not harassing him with texts. That definitely won’t help.”

 

“I know, I know.” He peered into his own glass of whiskey. “I guess I just need to wait.”

 

He waited weeks. At first, he sent a message once a week, a quick, _hope you’re doing well, I’d love to see you, to talk_. He never received anything in return, not even a request to stop. Then he cut back to once every two weeks.

 

Then it was October. He hadn’t seen Adam for nine weeks, hadn’t texted him in two when the call from the Falconer’s coach, Claude Laraque, came in, just at the beginning of the NHL season.

 

“We just need you on standby—Tater’s been having some difficulty with his knee ever since the surgery last year, and it makes Baker feel more comfortable if there’s an actual doctor available to check on him in between periods. Preferably someone familiar with the procedure he underwent.”

 

Justin fiddled with his fingers in his office, listening to the Laraque outline his plan. The call had been…unexpected to say the least. But not unwelcome.

 

“Is Dr. Baker normally the one supervising?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” came the defeated tinny voice from the other end of the line. “Unfortunately, he decided to lose his passport back in Canada—we’re still waiting on the embassy to sort everything out, but they’re being a little difficult. Something about a narcotics smuggling operation near the border in Quebec.”

 

Justin didn’t press that issue any further. “Mr. Laraque,” he began.

 

“Claude, please,” replied Coach Laraque.

 

“Yes, Claude then. I’m quite flattered that you would come to me, but also a bit curious.”

 

“Well,” said Laraque, “You and our captain here have a bit of a history, and once he mentioned your name as a doctor, Mashkov wouldn’t drop the issue. Apparently he likes you or something.”

 

It took all of his considerable willpower to contain the childish squeal which bubbled in his throat. Instead, he coughed lightly and said tightly, “Then it’s no trouble. Anything for Jack and his friends.”

 

“Perfect,” said Laraque, sounding more relieved than anything else. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said. “We’re playing the Aces, and, well, last time things got out of hand. I’m not saying to expect trouble—

 

“But I’ll keep my best sewing needles sharp,” said Justin.

 

“Glad you understand,” said Laraque. “You know, you can always tell if someone played the game. Something about their mentality. You’ll fit right in.”

 

Which was how he found himself flexing Tater’s knee in the Falconer’s locker room in Providence that evening, feeling around the joint for any swelling and pressing certain points to test for pain.

 

“Take me out dinner first,” said Tater as his hands move further up the thigh.

 

Justin choked, and Tater just laughed.

 

“I tell Zimmboni, I want you here. Don’t have cold hands, not like Matty.” Tater shot a baleful glare at one of the trainers, who stolidly ignored the goad and continues wrapping Thirdy’s ankle.

 

“Well, either way, my hands are done with you for this period,” said Justin, and he patted the table to indicate that Tater could step down. “We’ll have a check-in during intermission.”

 

“Unless need to take out rat-face Parson. Then maybe you see me again,” said Tater cheerfully, and Justin just rolled his eyes.

 

“I hope the refs are going to try to call a tight game here,” he sighed.

 

One of the other players—Marty, he was pretty sure—snorted. “They’ve got a new guy as a linesman tonight. Could go either way, don’t know much about him, only that he’s done some college hockey. They don’t fight quite the same in college as they do in the big leagues.”

 

“A new guy?” wondered Justin.

 

“Yeah, some guy named Birkholtz,” said Marty. “Coach mentioned him when we were doing video last night, mostly just to say he’s a bit of an unknown. Looks big enough to hold his own, so that’s good.”

 

“I’m hold my own,” insisted Mashkov.

 

“No one’s doubting you, Tates,” said the familiar voice of Jack from behind. He grinned at Justin. “I’ll try to keep him out of trouble.”

 

“Bitty make pie, then maybe we talk,” said Tater, and everyone laughed. Everyone except Justin.

 

Adam was here? Of all the games he was called to, it had to be the one where Adam was making his NHL debut? Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately), they wouldn’t have to interact. Justin would sit on the bench and, if everything went according to plan, would be needed very little over the course of the night.

 

The first period ran as smoothly as they could have hoped. He caught scraps of the less-than-friendly chirps volleyed back and forth between the two teams, but no one resorted to fighting, no one suffered any sort of serious injury other than a bruise. He checked on Tater’s knee during intermission and determined it now worse for the wear.

 

It was three quarters of the way through the second period when everything went to shit. While on the rush, one of the Aces (a large man he was unfamiliar with by sight) lost an edge as he careened towards the net, and suddenly a tangle of bodies littered the ice along the far wall—at least two Falconers, the Aces guys, and a large blond man in a zebra-striped shirt, and…

 

No. God, please no.

 

Before the players even had time to gesture for a doctor, Justin had vaulted the bench and begun his slip-and-slide journey across the ice. Halfway there, one of the Aces players grabbed ahold of him in order to provide some balance and security as he hurried, but he didn’t care how he got there as long as he got there and could see, touch, and hear evidence with his own eyes that Adam was unharmed.

 

By the time he arrived, the three hockey players had all returned to their feet, some a little shakily, but none seemed to be in great danger. Adam’s body, however, still sprawled across the ice.

 

“I need you to lie still,” he said firmly as he knelt beside Adam and yanked open his medical bag. “Don’t move.”

 

Adam’s eyes met his for the first time in more than two months. For a moment, as their gazes connected, Justin felt a rush of joy, of relief, of something sliding into place, and even more importantly, he saw similar emotions reflected in Adam’s face. He appeared…happy to see him.

 

Then the joy evaporated, clearly fueled solely by instinct, and Adam pushed himself away, trying to haul himself to a sitting position, retreating from Justin and from the medical help he definitely required. “Get away from me,” he spat out.

 

“Adam—

 

“Get away from me,” repeated Adam, jerking away only to double over in pain. Even without a clean, steady view, Justin could tell from his blown pupils that there was some head trauma. Adam needed to not be moving, and he needed to not be doing it soon.

 

“Just be still,” he said calmly. “Adam, as a doctor, I need you to be still.”

 

“Why are you even here?” said Adam. “Who the fuck let you here? What happened?”

 

A cold pit of dread formed deep in Justin’s stomach. If Adam couldn’t recall the hit which took him out, then he must have been experiencing some form of memory loss, another serious red flag.

 

“Adam,” he said, and he gripped Adam’s tightly to steady him, to try to anchor him to something physical. “You’re hurt. You need to be still.”

 

Adam was panting in obvious pain with his arm curled awkwardly in his lap, and his uneven eyes flitted around the ice without appearing to process nearly anything. He was confused and unsure, and every moment he spent moving around was another opportunity to cause further damage. He needed to relax.

 

So Justin did the only thing he could think to calm him, and he kissed Adam firmly on the lips.

 

The whole arena stilled, and a sharp gasp echoed throughout. Justin didn’t give a damn. What he cared about what Adam’s reaction, and most importantly, Adam stilled as well beneath the touch of Justin’s lips. Whether from shock or some other electric emotion, Adam stopped moving.

 

Justin pulled away, and Adam’s eyes were wide, yet somehow understanding. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please, just trust me and let me help you.”

 

Wordlessly, Adam nodded, and Justin helped him lie back against the ice so he could then be transported via backboard off the ice. He worked with the other trainers to secure his shoulder, which was clearly dislocated, and to keep his head as steady as possible. Then he followed the stretcher off the ice to tepid applause from the crowd. As they passed the bench, he caught the eye of Coach Laraque, who’s expression was curiously blank. Justin wondered vaguely if he would be allowed back to the locker room after this.

 

Adam was sent to the hospital in the back of an ambulance, and Justin returned to the trainer’s room just in time for the start of second intermission.

 

Several players were already gathered there, waiting for treatment and check-ups from the trainers. Alexei Mashkov was among them, and he swung his knees up and down from where he sat on the table, seemingly unconcerned by the events which had just transpired. When Justin stepped into the room, several conversations abruptly halted, but Tater just waved over to him.

 

“Randy!” he said, frowning, which was what usually passed for Justin’s name from his mouth. “Is ref okay?”

 

The question took him aback. “Ah, yes, he should be fine. Concussion and dislocated shoulder, but those are all treatable. The backboard is a precaution.”

 

Then Alexei asked, “You okay?”

 

He froze. “Am I okay? Why would I—why would I not be?”

 

“Because someone you care about is hurt,” said a familiar voice, quietly, from behind.

 

Justin whipped around to see Jack standing there, leaning on his stick. Jack smiled tightly in greeting, then continued, “If I had seen Bitty like that, then I definitely would not have been okay.”  


“We’re not together,” said Justin.

 

“But you were,” countered Jack, “and I know that you don’t stop caring about someone just because you break up.”

 

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “Perfectly fine. Now, Alexei, I need to check your knee again, if you don’t mind.”

 

He ignored Jack, who remained in the trainer’s room for another minute before leaving, presumably returning to the locker room. One by one, all the players departed, leaving just Justin and the other trainers, packing away their equipment and preparing for the next period.

 

“You know,” said one of the trainers, a rather stout, auburn-bearded balding man whom Justin was pretty sure was called Dmitri. “No one here is going to give you a hard time. We all know Bitty.”

 

Matt nodded. “It’s cool, man.”

 

“I mean, I don’t know what the Rock will say about kissing people on the ice. Not really something which applies to most folks, but if you knew the guy, maybe he’ll let you off easier.”

 

Justin gulped. “Thanks. I don’t really even know what to say about it.”

 

Probably-Dmitri clapped him on the back. “Well, you won’t have to say much until the game’s over. No distractions until after the final horn.”

 

What Dmitri and Matt had told him turned out to be entirely true. Other than a long, hard look when he returned to the doctor’s spot on the bench, Laraque said nothing directly to him, just focused all his considerable energy and fury for his team. All things considered, it was a decent game to watch, and Justin wanted to enjoy it. He wanted to savor the experience of sitting on an NHL bench, a small dream of his he’d abandoned long ago after realizing he lacked the talent of an NHL-caliber player. But Jack, for once, had been right about Justin’s emotions. He wasn’t okay. Not even close.

 

After the game, he returned to the trainer’s room to pick up all of his belongings and to await whatever Laraque or someone else from the Falconers might have to say. Matty, Dmitri and Kayla all left him well enough alone, packing up their belongings and their equipment with practiced, impressive efficiency. He wished he could have helped them; at least he could have kept his hands busy. Instead he sat on one of the tables, staring steadily at the ground, willing it to engulf him.

 

“Oluransi,” said the voice of Laraque, booming through the door.

 

Justin looked up from his ground. “Coach Laraque.”

 

“I’m not your coach,” said Laraque sternly, and Justin’s face warmed in embarrassment.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry about everything.”

 

“I’m not your coach,” repeated Laraque, and his expression softened ever so slightly. “I’m not your coach, but if you work for the Falconers, even for a day, you’re part of the team. My team. Do you understand?”

 

What could he possibly say? “I do.”

 

“Good.” Laraque crossed his arms. “So, while there are going to be a thousand people wanting answers, including a fair number from within this organization, right now, I’m going to treat you like I’d treat one of my boys in the locker room. So I just have one question for you: is he on your team?”

 

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” he stuttered. “Is who on my _team_?”

 

“The way I tell it to the boys, everyone here’s got two teams,” said Laraque. “You’ve got the one on the ice, the one who plays the game and takes the hits for you. And then you’ve got your other team, and that team is all the people who let you do what you love, whether it’s playing or coaching or being a doctor. It’s family and whoever else gets you through the hard times. So, is Birkholtz, that guy you were kissing out there, is he on your team?”

 

He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He wasn’t fully sure he could answer Laraque’s question; at one point, he would have said yes. Adam had been good for him, had helped him navigate the world. He’d been hilarious and thoughtful in turns, and exactly what he’d needed. But then he’d fucked that up, so he couldn’t say for sure if they were on the same team. He did know one thing, though.

 

He cleared his throat. “I’d like for him to be, yes.”

 

Laraque nodded. “Then go take care of your team, and come back to us once both of you are okay. You’ll be hearing from a few people from the Falconers, but don’t pick up the phone unless you recognize the number. We all need to get our story straight here. Or…well, perhaps not so straight as the case may be.”

 

“Understood.”

 

They stood there for a couple of seconds before Laraque jerked his head. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

 

“Right, yes, of course.”

 

He ducked out of the training room and was at Mass General within fifteen minutes. Then it was just a matter of tracking down where Adam had gone. After asking around and bribing Nurse Roberta with a promise of his mother’s cookies the next time she sent them, he managed to locate the room where they’d settled him in. He entered without knocking, without warning.

 

A doctor, one he didn’t recognize, was in the process of examining Adam when he stepped in. Neither of the two men registered his presence for several moments, until Adam’s eyes suddenly widened and he backed up against the pillow.

 

“Why are you here?” asked Adam, not bothering to hide any accusation.

 

“Why am I here? I’m here to see you of course,” said Justin.

 

“You already saw me back on the ice.”

 

“Well, it’s okay to see someone more than once. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 

“I’m sorry, and you are…” Their conversation had confused the attending doctor, whose nametag marked him as one Dr. Hanson.

 

Justin held out his hand. “Dr. Justin Oluransi, orthopedics. I work here as well.”

 

“Are you working right now?” said Adam.

 

“No. Like I said, I’m just here to see you.”

 

“You didn’t need to do that,” said Adam, but the implication was, _you shouldn’t have done that_.

 

“Excuse me for being concerned about you. You barely knew where you were after that collision!”

 

“Dr. Oluransi,” interrupted Dr. Hanson, “I’m afraid that if Mr. Birkholtz doesn’t want you here and you’re not on duty right now, then there is no legitimate reason for you be in this room. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Mr. Birkholtz will be going into surgery in the morning, and he needs some rest.”

 

“Surgery!”

 

“To finish resetting his shoulder. It appears to have been dislocated several times before, and this time we’d like to make the fix more permanent.”

 

Justin stared at Adam, who seemed to have taken the ostrich tactic “if I can’t see you, it means you don’t exist.”

 

“Look,” said Justin. “I was the doctor with him on the ice. I know him, he’s…he’s a friend of mine, even if we’re fighting right now. If you could just…if I could just talk to him…”

 

“That’s up to Mr. Birkholtz,” said Dr. Hanson. She turned to her patient. “Will you allow Dr. Oluransi to talk to you?”

 

Adam’s eyes skittered towards Justin, to Dr. Hanson, and then back. “Fine,” he said.

 

Dr. Hanson, clearly less than convinced, nodded nonetheless. “I’ll be back in ten.”

 

And Adam and Justin were alone in the room for the first time in months.

 

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” he blurted out.

 

“What, at all?” Fortunately, all the incoherence which had plagued Adam back on the ice had dissipated. Unfortunately, he could now recall every detail of his anger.

 

“No, no you—no. Back at the ice. I needed you to calm down, and I wasn’t sure how else to do it. So, I just went with instinct.”

 

“And your instinct was to kiss me?”

 

“Yes,” he said honestly. “I figured, maybe if you even felt a fraction of what I felt, of what I feel for you…maybe it would calm you. At the very least it would be a surprise.”

 

“It did work,” conceded Adam. “The surprise I mean.”

 

“I’m just relieved you’re okay. Obviously,” he amended, “you’re not totally okay, but you will be. Dr. Hanson would be more concerned if you weren’t.”

 

Adam hugged his arm tightly to his chest. They’d already removed his referee uniform and replaced it with teal scrubs, the extra-large sort which accommodated Adam’s height but still billowed around him loosely. They’d also given him a navy sling, something temporary to serve as a stopgap until the morning.

 

“Oh I feel grateful. Everything today has just been a rush of gratitude.”

 

Justin ignored his sarcasm. He only had ten minutes with Adam, and there were things he needed to discuss.

 

“How are you?” he asked. Adam looked at him disbelievingly. “No, I mean it. How are you? How have you been?”

 

Adam sighed, leaned back into his pillow with a wince. “It’s had its ups and downs. First NHL game, that was definitely an up. Getting mowed over by a giant, definitely a down. So it goes.”

 

“I didn’t know you were going to be refereeing your first game.”

 

Adam shook his head. “Why would you know?”

 

“You could have told me.” Adam turned away. “I texted you, you could have told me.”

 

“Justin, I know you’re a smart guy. You know why I wouldn’t do that.”

 

“I know why you didn’t.” He fell into the chair next to Adam’s bed, one of the hard plastic ones responsible for half the back problems in the country. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could change your mind.” He paused. “I miss you.”

 

Silence.

 

“You looked happy to see me on the ice for a moment. Before you regained your senses.”

 

“That’s because I was. Happy, I mean,” said Adam. The hand on his good arm fidgeted with the blankets. “Just because I’m furious with you doesn’t mean I don’t miss you too.”

 

His statement floored Justin. “Really?”

 

Adam rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you from the beginning that I like you. Is it so strange that I would miss you once you’re gone?” His eyes hardened. “But just because I miss you, doesn’t mean I’m ready to forgive you.”

 

“Will you? Be ready some day?”

 

The curtains around the bedroom ruffled with passing breeze. Somewhere outside, an infant cried, and someone else moaned. The air stank of Lysol and of hospital. God he hated that chair, hated it as he sat and waited for the answer he’d been missing for weeks now.

 

“Maybe,” said Adam at last. “But no guarantees.” He coughed weakly and pulled his arm to his chest. “Fuck, man. Why does it always happen like this?”

 

“I’ll get Dr. Hanson,” said Justin. “I’m a doctor, but I’m not your doctor. She’s in charge of you for now.” Without warning, he bent over, pressed a tender kiss on Adam’s forehead. “Just…just, I hope you’re ready soon. I promise if you are, I’ll make it worth your while.”

 

“I think you should go now,” said Adam. “I’ll tell you if the time ever comes. It’s just—how do I know you mean anything you say?”

 

Justin resolved that, one way or another, Adam would believe that he cared. If, after all that, he still wanted nothing to do with him? He would just have to live with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, sorry? But notice how it says 4/5 chapters? That means there's one more on the way. They'll get their ending.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How hard can it be to win back the love of your life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read (and especially to those who have reviewed)! I hope you all enjoy the last chapter of the story. After the angst of the last chapter, I think you'll find this one a little easier to get through.

Once Adam was discharged from the hospital, a few days after the game, Justin realized quickly that he had lost his primary contact method, and therefore his only means of convincing Adam to reconsider their relationship. Previous experience also dictated that Adam would ignore any texts, calls or voicemails he left; what would be one more text in the stack of ones he’d already sent anyways? Similarly, letters could be discarded unopened, unread. Short of showing up on Adam’s doorstep to beg for forgiveness, he wasn’t sure there was much to do.

 

So, naturally, he turned to Bitty for advice. If Bitty could manage to have a healthy, loving relationship with Jack despite Jack’s almost comical romantic incompetence, surely he would have a solution?

 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Bitty tightly over the phone that evening. “If he doesn’t want to have contact with you, then you should respect that. Otherwise—and I’m not saying you’re doing this yet—otherwise it could become weird.”

 

“I just want him to give me a chance. Just a chance to do things properly, now that I know where I stand and what I feel. Bitty…Bitty, I think I love him. I really do. And you know how much that means coming from me. You know I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought he wanted nothing to do with me either.”

 

“If he’s even half as stubborn as you are, maybe you two do have a chance,” muttered Bitty under his breath. Justin refused to dignify that with an answer, so Bitty cleared his throat and resumed his sprightly demeanor. “Well, my usual go-to apology method is baking a pie.”

 

“I think if he tastes any pie I make, it would hurt my cause rather than help it.”

 

“You’re really not that bad,” said Bitty in a tone which suggested he was absolutely lying through his teeth. “However, let’s agree that you shouldn’t be testing your pie-making abilities with this much on the line.”

 

“So, for the baking-challenged among us, what would you suggest?”

 

Bitty percolated on that question for a while; he’d clearly never had to consider a world without his godlike baking skills at his fingertips. Finally, his ruminating complete, he said slowly, “I guess, when Jack forgot to call for a couple of days on the west coast road trip, he sent me three dozen roses and a fruit basket.” Bitty chuckled. “Which is only after I made him promise to never order more than three dozen after our first Valentine’s day together. A man can only hand so many flowers.”

 

Justin sighed. “I’m not sure that Adam’s really the flower type.” He considered the other part of Jack’s well-intentioned offering. “A fruit basket, though. Those are pretty hard to fuck up. I mean, who doesn’t love fruit? Especially when it’s carved into fun shapes?”

 

“Right,” said Bitty. “Pretty much irresistible.”

 

He ignored Bitty’s clear skepticism. If he wanted to express his repentance, his true remorse, then perhaps he could do it in more tangible ways. More than words, but actions as well. Actions Adam would appreciate.

 

That night he ordered ten fruit baskets, spaced over the next three weeks. Then he ordered several boxes of chocolates, followed by several cases of beer. Then, just to be safe, he bought five more fruit baskets.

 

For the first week, there was nothing. Not even a hint that his gifts had been received. He tracked the packages and saw that yes, they had been delivered, so clearly they had reached Adam’s threshold. Thought he longed to reach out, to ask what he thought of them, he refrained from doing so. What would he say that he hadn’t already written or spoken over the phone.

 

Finally, three weeks later, on the day the tenth fruit basket arrived, he received a text at 11:14 pm.  _If talking to you will end the fruit deluge, then fine, we can talk._

 

Justin was at his apartment within half an hour, knocking the door. Adam opened after a minute.

 

“What I felt when I saw you on the ice, unconscious—I don’t think I would feel that way if it were anyone else in the world except my mother.”

 

Adam blinked at him.

 

“And my father and siblings too, I suppose,” Justin added. “But that doesn’t flow as well off the tongue.”

 

Again, Adam just stared.

 

“What I’m trying to say is, what I feel for you, how much I care about you—it isn’t something small I can brush away. Adam, I’ve known you for less than a year and you’re basically the most important person in my life outside of my family. And that’s why I won’t stop sending you fruit baskets.”

 

When Adam continued staring, Justin began again. “Look, I know that you probably have conflicted feelings—

 

“Justin! Dude!” interrupted Adam, finally breaking his silence. “I heard you the first time. I know what you mean, you just…you just need to give me a minute.” He glanced down at the watch adorning his free wrist. “It’s like 11:45 at night and I’ve had some Vicodin so I can’t, uh, I can’t do this all at once. You gotta slow down for me.”

 

Some tension sagged out of shoulders. “Oh,” said Justin. “Yeah—I had a later shift and some coffee and I’m just a bit wired. Sorry, this is probably a bad time.”

 

Adam sighed, leaning against the doorframe with a small wince. “No, it’s—well, there’s never going to be a great time to have this conversation, so, you know, this might as well happen.”

 

Justin couldn’t help himself. “John Mulaney?” he ventured.

 

Adam cracked his first smile of the evening. “Nice catch.” Then the crinkles at his eye drooped and he backed away from the door. “If we’re going to do this without me passing out standing up, you should probably come inside. Vicodin’s a real bitch, you know.”

 

Justin followed Adam inside to the apartment. Compared to his previous visits there (of which, looking back, there had been surprisingly few—they had mostly spent time at Justin’s place), the place was definitively sloppier. The tower of dishes loomed large in the sink, and debris littered the coffee table and most other available surface. A bottle of pills (presumably the Vicodin) stood next to a basket of pears on the counter.  It was one of several fruit baskets scattered around the living area, each in various states of consumption.

 

Adam had tracked Justin’s gaze and spoke lightly. “I wasn’t kidding, you know. A man can only eat so much fruit.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “What I have eaten has been good, so, you know, thanks. Turns out fruit kebabs are one of the easier foods to consumer one handed. Less chopping.”

 

“Do you want to sit?” asked Justin. “I’m not…I’m not trying to say you have to sit—it’s your place, you do what you want. Just, you know, you said that the Vicodin’s hitting you hard…”

 

“Let’s sit,” said Adam decidedly. “And you can stop dancing around the subject here. You already showed up full rom-com mode with a confession of love, so we don’t have to pretend like we’re in a middle school version of boy meets boy here. I’m not tugging on anyone’s pigtails.”

 

“Right.” They took seats on the couch, leaving less than half a foot between them. Those six inches were like a purgatory; the closest he’d been in weeks, and yet Adam was still untouchable. He settled for clenching his fist, digging fingernails into the soft meat of his palm.

 

“Well,” began Adam finally, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Do you want to say anything.?”

 

“I feel like I’ve already said most of what I need to say.”

 

“You’ve said you care about me,” said Adam, “which, quite frankly the fruit baskets were also doing a good job expressing, but the verbal confirmation is appreciated. Now, the questions is,  what do you want with to do with these feelings? I care about a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I’m dating any of them.”

 

“I do want to date you,” he said, inching forward. Encouragingly, Adam didn’t retreat beneath his approach. “For real, too. Not just hooking up after games and hanging out on the side. I’m talking real dates. A real relationship, no questions about it.”

 

Adam gulped and hunched his shoulders, curling into himself. He took several deep breaths, then spoke evenly. “I guess, I’m just having trouble believing it. I look at Xavier, and he’s like the second hottest guy I know besides you, plus he’s a human rights lawyer? And I’ve seen pictures of the other people you’ve dated. March? She’s fucking gorgeous, and so are all the people you’ve told me about. I’m like, the opposite of whatever they are. You’re a doctor who saves lives, and I pull grown men off each other when they get too angry. There’s like no competition between me and guys like Xavier.”

 

The revelation about Adam’s self-perception, or at least the depth of his self-doubt, was almost stunning. Sure, Adam wasn’t a model, but there was a spectrum between model and leper, and Adam definitely fell on the more attractive side of that scale. 

 

There was a long list of things to correct, and he didn’t necessarily want to touch on all of them, so he stuck to the highlights. “Well, first of all, if you think that you being a ref is something I wouldn’t respect, let me remind you that I played hockey formally for nearly twenty years. Not everyone has to be a fucking doctor or lawyer, and I don’t want to date someone who’s exactly like me, who’s just as neurotic and with a similarly sized stick up their ass. Secondly, if you think that looks are the only thing I care about, I’m insulted. You have ten time the humor and personality of Xavier, and I’ll take that any day over his cheekbones.”

 

Adam looked away.

 

“And thirdly, all the other people I dated, you know what they all have in common?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Adam, placing his hand over his eyes. “Were they all supermodels as well?”

 

“They aren’t with me anymore,” said Justin. “None of those relationships worked out.”

 

Adam removed his hand from his face to eye Justin skeptically. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not with you either at this point.”

 

“No,” he conceded, “that’s true. But I want you to be. And I think that if I hadn’t been such a complete idiot, we’d still be together.”

 

Adam snorted. “That’s all well and good, but how do I know you won’t be an idiot again? I mean, you do it once over the span of five months, that’s twice per year. I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with that level of shit twice per year.”

 

Justin scooted closer to Adam on the couch, just until his hand could practically feel the denim of Adam’s jeans, even if they weren’t actually touching. “Because while I may be kind of terrible at decision making, once I do make up my mind, I stick to it.”

 

Adam’s spoke softly. “But why would you decide on me?”

 

Justin closed the gap, placed his hand on Adam’s thigh. Adam responded with an almost imperceptible shiver. “Because, Adam Birkholtz, I have never felt safer or surer of myself than when I was around you. Because you’re hilarious, and I think if we had gone to school together, I would have laughed a thousand times more and cried a hundred times less. Because you’re a far braver man than me, and I want to learn from you.” He paused, then chuckled. “Because you’ve the ass of a hockey player and the teeth of a dentist.”

 

Adam shook his body in silent laughter. “That’s such a fucking weird thing to say.” Then he smiled, ever so slightly. “I suppose, better than the ass of a dentist and the teeth of a hockey player.”

 

“I do know some dentists with good asses,” mused Justin, but quickly clarified, “but none as good as yours.”

 

Adam smirked, but then his expression grew more serious. “So,” he said.

 

“So,” repeated Justin.

 

“So, uh, I suppose that maybe now would be the time to say that I missed you too. A lot. Then I would get angry, mostly at you but a little at myself. And then I would think of something you said, and I would laugh and then miss you again. A vicious cycle. Or is it circle?”

 

“Dunno,” said Justin. He could barely breathe. A small shoot of hope had sprouted within his chest, and he was trying to stifle it, mostly unsuccessfully.

 

They both smiled, and the genuine warmth suffusing Adam’s gaze sent shivers through Justin’s spine. He leaned forward, until his lips were centimeters from Adam’s face.

 

“So, does this mean I get to kiss you now?” he asked, trying (and probably failing) to suppress the hope and desperation from his voice.

 

Adam smirked. “I don’t know. I usually require at least twenty fruit baskets before I put out. I think I’ve only gotten fifteen.”

 

“Don’t tempt me, Birkholtz,” he warned, but leaned to kiss Adam, careful to avoid any pressure on his bad shoulder. Adam quickly deepened the kiss, yanking Justin closer with no regard for care or subtlety. They stayed on the couch, making out for several minutes, before at last Adam pulled away, grinning sheepishly.

 

“This is going to sound so lame, but like, the Vicodin’s really hitting me right now and I think I’m gonna crash hard.”

 

Justin gave him a small peck on the lips. “Then let’s hit the hay. Or,” he said, realizing he might have overstepped, “I can go too. Whichever you want.”

 

“Part of being in a relationship means sleeping next to my sorry ass, even when there’s no sex for you,” said Adam. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this so easy.”

 

Justin just laughed and gave Adam a gentle shove off the couch. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“You know that I snore,” said Adam, calling back over his shoulder.

 

“Yeah,” said Justin. “I know. If we’re doing this, then your sweaty socks are definitely going to be the tipping point, not your snoring.”

 

Adam wasn’t wrong—he did snore, and loudly. Justin kissed him anyways, once just as he was drifting off and then once again once he was well and truly asleep.

 

 

 

It was the sound of a doorbell which woke them both. Justin stirred first, used to sleeping light from his years on call as a young doctor. Adam mumbled something incomprehensible and snuggled closer towards Justin’s body heat.

 

“Adam, babe,” he said, and he relished in the small thrill which coursed through him. He could call Adam “babe.” He could call him his boyfriend.

 

Said boyfriend simply groaned and glued himself further to Justin’s side.

 

“Adam,” he repeated, more firmly this time. He placed a gentle yet sturdy hand on Adam’s chest and tapped him lightly. “Adam, you expecting anyone?”

 

At last, Adam cracked open a bleary eyelid. He seemed confused for a second, and Justin remembered that Adam’s vision without glasses or contacts was truly horrendous. Hopefully he remembered what had happened last night.

 

“What?”

 

Justin sighed. “The doorbell rang. You expecting anyone?”

 

Adam groaned, but stretched out his good arm and groped for his glasses on the bedside table. In a truly impressive nearly one-handed endeavor, he threw on a button-down shirt and yanked a pair of sweatpants over his boxers. Then, Justin’s eyes trailing him curiously along the way, he plodded out of the bedroom and towards the front door.

 

There was silence. Then: “Are you _fucking kidding me_?” Several sentences of incoherent mumbling, followed by, “JUSTIN!”

 

Justin threw on his clothes from yesterday, not even bothering to fully zip his jeans, and skidded into the living room to find an irate Adam, a confused delivery man, and a towering Edible Arrangement staring at him from the coffee table.

 

Oh, right. He hadn’t cancelled the latest delivery.

 

“Uh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I ordered in bulk? To save money?”

 

Adam shoved a handful of change at the delivery man and practically pushed the poor guy (who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two) out the door.

 

“How many more of these are there?” asked Adam, pointing accusingly at the innocuous tower of fruit.

 

Justin calculated slowly in his head. “You know how you said you usually required twenty before putting out?”

 

“Justin, I swear to God—

 

“I think I ordered twenty-five.”

 

Adam blinked, then closed his eyes, breathing slowly. When he opened his eyes, an almost vindictive gleam lurking within. “Then it’s a good thing you’ll be spending more time around here, because you are officially responsible for consuming all of the fruit which passes my doorstep.”

 

“I’m actually allergic to pineapple, so—

 

“All. Of. It.”

 

“Right, got it.” Then, taking in the scene—Adam with his hair sprouting in eighteen directions, foggy glasses askew, his bad arm only half-through the sleeve of his ratty plaid button down, his index finger pointed at the latest basket like the watermelon had personally murdered his father—he burst into laughter.

 

Adam narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t funny.”

 

Justin gestured grandly at all the fruit baskets scattered around the apartment. “You’ve got to admit, it’s a little funny. Plus, you know, I think you just terrified the poor delivery guy. Your hair’s adding an extra three inches to your height, which trust me, you definitely don’t need.”

 

The corner of Adam’s mouth quirked upwards. “Well, you know, I gotta keep a rep going.”

 

“Oh yea, and what rep is that?” asked Justin. He slid closer to Adam and poked his thumb into the elastic of his sweatpants, pressing his thumb pad just against the hipbone.

 

Adam’s pupils dilated beneath the touch. “Well,” he said, lowering his bass voice even further, “it is my job to strike fear into the hearts of men.”

 

“Even poor delivery boys?”

 

“A man’s got to practice somehow.”

 

Justin tilted his head up to kiss Adam. “Just so we’re clear, you don’t scare me.”

 

Adam murmured, “Well, you should at least pretend to look scared. That way, no one can accuse me of favoritism during your games.”

 

“I don’t need your help,” said Justin. “I’ll win by talent alone.”

 

Adam backed up slowly towards bedroom, dragging Justin along with him. “If you’re feeling that arrogant, I can think of a better use for it.”

 

Justin grinned. “Vicodin worn off by now?”

 

“Oh yes. And another hour til I can take some more, so we’d best get started now.”

 

So he followed Adam into the bedroom, leaving the fruit basket to a room of its own.

 

  


_Two years later_

 

Justin waited in the tunnel, legs shaking with anticipation. His hands kept fidgeting in his pocket, and Larry, one of the assistant equipment managers in the tunnel with him, kept shooting amused glances in his direction.

 

“Relax, man. It’s gonna be great.”

 

“Is it though? What if he says no?”

 

“Do you actually think that?” said Larry.

 

“Well, no, but what if he does?”

 

“And what if you’re overthinking this?” countered Larry. He twisted his head towards the tunnel entrance, the one which led directly onto the ice at TD Garden. One of the refs staring into the tunnel nodded and gestured for the two of them.

 

“I think it’s your time,” said Larry. “Best make it count, eh?”

 

Without allowing Justin to respond, he led the two of them to the ice, allowing Justin to walk across the carpet still set up for the anthem singer. Good. He wouldn’t want to slip across the ice in front of thousands of people.

 

All of the Falconers had been informed of what was occurring, courtesy of Jack. Presumably, some of the Bruins knew as well, since the event was occurring at TD Garden. The announcer informed the crowd that they were welcoming Dr. Oluransi, a friend of the Falconer’s organization, and some titters echoed across the rink. Did some recall his name from the kiss from his last time on NHL ice? Certainly his name, along with Adam’s, had circulated throughout the sports news world, but two years had passed since then.

 

Most likely he was just overthinking it.

 

A familiar blond ref skated up to him, brow creased in confusion.

 

“Uh, Justin? What are you doing here?” said Adam. “Is everything okay?” He scraped his skates across the ice.

 

Justin gulped and reached into his suit pocket, wrapped his hand around the ring, and dropped to one knee. “I sure hope so.”

 

The roar from the crowd was deafening as he procured the ring and held it out before him. He wasn’t sure if he would actually be able to speak over the noise. Judging by Adam’s gobsmacked expression, though, he understood the point.

 

“Adam Birkholtz, will you marry me?” he said, hoping Adam could hear him amidst the clamor.

 

Adam nodded wordlessly, holding out left hand. Justin slipped the ring on his finger and stood up, feeling like his cheeks might split with his smile. He pulled Adam in for a deep kiss when, without warning, Adam scooped him up so that he was being held bridal-style, literally swept off his feet.

 

They kissed for far too long, he was sure, but he didn’t care. Catcalls from the Falcs along with a rather pointed throat clear from Adam’s fellow referees finally brought him back to earth, and Adam set him gently back onto the carpet, blushing furiously. Justin caught a glimpse of the Falc’s bench—of Jack’s genuine smile, of Tater’s outrageous enthusiasm, and then of Shitty, Bitty and Lardo sitting just behind the glass—and pulled Adam in for one last embrace.

 

“I guess you have to do your job now,” he murmured in Adam’s ear.

 

“The moment I’m done, we’re taking a cab back home,” said Adam. He released Justin. “And then we’re calling my dad.”

 

“Oh, no need to do that,” said Justin. “He’s in the stands.”

 

From just off the right of the Falc’s bench, a gray-haired man with glasses partially obscuring his kind eyes waved enthusiastically. Three young women, each with identical blond hair and blue eyes, gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Adam’s sisters

 

Adam turned back to him, and for the first time since they’d known each other, tears welled in the corner of his eyes. “Justin,” he said. “This is perfect.” He shook his head. “How did you…?”

 

Justin just kissed him one last time. “Because I know you, and I love you.” He gave Adam’s ass a quick pat. “Now go put the fear of death into some hockey players.”

 

Adam gave him a quick smile before assuming his ref persona, all trace of humor gone.

 

“All right, show’s over, folks!” he yelled at the players watching. “Now who’s ready to play?”

**Author's Note:**

> Until next time!


End file.
